The third paper was the Daily Free Press dated Thursday morning, March 16, 1882, making her wonder if the Bodie Morning News had gone out of business.
This paper, too, was mostly ads:
Philadelphia Beer Depot
Opposite Wells, Fargo & Co’s.
This Celebrated Beer is not on tap, and for
purity and flavor
IT HAS NO EQUAL
Chas. H. Kelly
Leading
UNDERTAKER
Main Street, Bodie
Everything in the undertaker’s line
fully attended to. Embalming and
the preparation of bodies for trans-
portation will receive special attendance.
WOOD! wood!
At
N. Ambler’s
Nevada Wood Yard
Nut-pine, Cedar & Mahogany Wood
Cut to order and delivered at lowest rates.
Yard on Mill Street, South of Hospital
Mrs. Brophy
FASHIONABLE DRESSMAKER
LaGrange House
HOSTETTER’S STOMACH BITTERS
The name of Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters
is heard in every dwelling. It finds a place
in every household, and its praises are
sounded throughout the whole Western
Hemisphere, as a general invigorant,
a cure for sick headache, a specific for flatulency
and sour stomach, an appetizing stomachic,
an excellent blood depurent and certain
remedy for intermittent fever and kindred
diseases.
For sale by all Druggists and Dealers
Generally
She thumbed through The Guide to Bodie and Eastern Sierra Historic Sites. She grinned when she saw that this book, too, mentioned the quote from the little girl’s diary that was supposed to read, “Goodbye God! We are going to Bodie.”
According to this book, the editor of a Bodie newspaper rejoined that the little girl had been misquoted. What she had really said was, “Good, by God! We are going to Bodie.”
Yawning, Shaye closed the book and put it on the table beside the bed, turned off the light, and snuggled under the covers. No sooner had she closed her eyes than the ghostly image she had seen at the jail appeared in her mind, as tall and dark and handsome as before, his eyes shadowed with despair.
“Go away,” she murmured. “You don’t exist.”
* * * * *
She slept later than usual and woke feeling vaguely uneasy over a dream that had been set in Bodie. She supposed her dream wasn’t all that surprising, since she had spent the day wandering through the ghost town but, try as she might, she couldn’t remember any details except that she had been desperately searching for someone… someone with long black hair and dark-brown eyes.
She showered, brushed her teeth, and dried her hair. She pulled on a pair of black shorts and her favorite Beauty and the Beast tee shirt, laced up her Nikes, and went in search of breakfast, hoping to be on the road no later than eleven.
After a quick breakfast of French toast and orange juice, she made a stop at the nearest gas station. She smiled as she glanced at her watch. Ten forty-five.
She pulled out of the driveway and followed the signs to the highway. Switching on the radio, she found a country station.
“Next stop, Reno.”
She was singing Smoke Rings in the Dark along with her favorite country singer, Gary Alan, when she realized she was on the road heading back to Bodie.
With a shake of her head, she pulled off the road, intending to turn around. Instead, she sat there for a moment, wondering how she could have made such a mistake in the first place, wondering if, subconsciously, she wanted to go back, wanted to see the jail one more time, if only to prove that what she had seen, or thought she had seen, had been nothing more than her imagination.
Frowning, she switched off the engine and gazed into the distance. Bodie was there, nestled in a shallow valley surrounded by a range of barren, windswept hills where nothing grew but sagebrush.
She leaned to the left and peered in the rearview mirror. “Have you lost your mind, Shaye Montgomery? You’re supposed to be going to Reno. What the devil are you doing here?”
What, indeed? She closed her eyes and the image of a man’s face flashed through her mind. A face that looked familiar, yet one she knew she had never seen before.
Except in her imagination.
And last night.
In a dream.
* * * * *
The same attendant was on duty when she reached the entrance to the park. “Welcome back,” she said.
Shaye grinned as she handed the woman two dollars. “Thanks. I didn’t expect to be back so soon.”
“Well, the place kind of grows on you,” the woman replied. “Do you need a guidebook?”
Shaye held up the one she had bought yesterday. “No, thanks. Got one.”
“Well, have a good day then.”
“Thanks, you, too.” Shaye hesitated a moment. Then, feeling like a fool, she blurted, “Has anyone ever seen a ghost here?”
“Of course, honey,” the attendant said with an indulgent grin. “It is a ghost town, you know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’ve worked and lived here for the past five years,” the attendant replied soberly. “And I’ve never seen one, but some of the year-round employees claim to have seen the Angel of Bodie.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, the way the story was told to me, one of the miners and a little girl became good friends. Seems she followed him wherever he went. One day she followed him just a little too close and as he was swinging his axe, he accidentally hit her in the head and fractured her skull. She’s buried in the Bodie cemetery.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No, but a few years back, a couple of tourists claimed to. A man and his daughter were visiting the cemetery and he said his little girl was laughing and seemed to be playing with an invisible playmate. He didn’t think anything of it at the time. Later, his daughter supposedly asked who the little girl in the cemetery was.”
“Do you believe it?”
“I don’t know. But if there’s such a thing as ghosts, this is the place for ‘em.”
With a nod, Shaye put the car in gear and drove up to the parking lot. As clearly as if she was seeing the words in print, she recalled the last few lines on the first page of the guide book: But with the possible exception of an occasional ghostly visitor, its badmen are all in their graves.
She parked the Rover, grabbed her keys and backpack, and locked the door.
For a moment, she stood at the top of the hill, and then she hurried down the path and made her way to the museum housed in the Miners Union Hall on Main Street where she had bought books the day before.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes.” She smiled at the man behind the counter. He was a nice-looking man, about her height, with wavy blond hair and hazel eyes. His badge identified him as Clark McDonald. “Do you have any books on…” She hesitated. “On ghosts?”
“You believe in ghosts, do you?”
“No, I don’t actually.”
“Just curious?”
“It’s research,” she said, thinking quickly. “I’m a writer.”
“Is that so? What do you write?”
“Actually, I’m an investigative reporter.” She held out her hand. “Shaye Montgomery.”
“Clark McDonald. What are you investigating here?”
“Nothing. I mean, it’s like I said, I’m doing research. I’ve decided to try my hand at writing a novel set in Bodie.”
“I see.” Clark studied her a moment, his eyes narrowed, his expression thoughtful. Stepping out from behind the counter, he motioned for her to follow him.
Curious, she followed him outside and around to the back of the building. “You’ve seen something, haven’t you?” he asked. “
Felt something?”
“What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you?”
She nodded, her mouth dry, her heart pounding.
“Where?”
“At the jail.”
McDonald drew in a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh.
“Have you seen it?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. I thought I did once, maybe cause I was hoping to, but…” He shrugged. “It was probably just my imagination.”
“When did it happen?”
“At the jail, just a year ago. On August twelfth.”
“I saw him yesterday,” she said. “Well, I don’t know if it was him, but I saw something. At least I think I did.”
He nodded. “Yesterday was August twelfth.”
“Who is he? I mean, who was he?”
Clark glanced up and down the street. “His name was Alejandro Valverde, but most people called him Rio. He came to Bodie in late 1879 near as I can tell. He was a gambler, quick with a knife and a gun. He owned half-interest in a saloon for awhile. His partner was a prostitute. He was accused of killing her. He swore he was innocent right up to the end, but no one believed him. He was hanged in 1880. On August twelfth, three days after they arrested him for her murder.”
Shaye stared at him, her heart pounding wildly. “How do you know so much about him?”
“He was a distant relative. His mother was an Indian. I think her name was Lark or Dove or something like that. His old man was Irish and Spanish. Our lines cross somewhere on the Irish side. Alejandro was born in South Dakota, near the Black Hills.”
“Do you know what Valverde looked like?”
“Just that he was tall, with long black hair.”
“And brown eyes?”
Clark shrugged. “Might have been. I have an old photo, but it’s black and white, you know, so it’s hard to tell.”
She felt a thrill of excitement. “I’d like to see it.”
Clark glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to work. Are you planning to spend the day here?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“The picture’s up at my place. I’ve got an old diary you might be interested in, too. I could show them to you after work.”
“All right.”
“Why don’t you meet me here at, say, seven? We can have dinner and talk.”
Shaye nodded. “Sounds great. Thanks so much.”
With a nod, he walked toward the street.
Shaye stood there a moment. It was only a little after noon, which meant she had seven hours to kill. She tapped her foot impatiently, then took a deep breath.
“Relax, Shaye,” she muttered. “You’re on vacation.”
There was nothing to do but take the self-guided tour again. Pulling the guide book out of her backpack, she walked back to Green Street and the post marked One. The Dolan House. The guidebook had little to say about this family other than they produced two Mono County sheriffs around the turn of the century.
The Methodist Church was next. It was the only church still standing in the town, and the only Protestant church ever built. The last service had been held in 1932. In the ensuing years, the interior of the building had been badly vandalized. According to the booklet, the Ten Commandants, painted on oilcloth, had once hung behind the pulpit. Apparently, whoever had stolen it did not hold with the Ninth Commandment—thou shalt not steal.
The next stop was the McDonald house. The guidebook said that McDonald had been injured when two tons of dynamite, still a recent invention in 1879, blew up the old Standard works. The house was later owned by the Burkham family. S.B. Burkham operated a store on Main Street in the 1880s and 1890s. His son, Cecil, ran the first automobile stage out of Bodie in 1912.
She really should write a book, Shaye thought. The town and its former inhabitants were fascinating.
Shaye continued on down Green Street. She paused in front of each building, waiting to see if she would feel anything, sense anything out of the ordinary. Maybe what had happened at the jail yesterday had just been her imagination, after all. And maybe Clark McDonald was just some guy who was a little wacko from spending so much time in a ghost town.
She stopped in front of the Cain House, located on the corner of Green and Park Streets. It was her favorite, with its large square glass window. There was a photograph of James Cain and his wife, Martha, on page five of the guidebook. It was a wedding picture. The caption stated they had been married in Carson City on September 17, 1879. The groom was sitting down, looking stern. Martha stood beside him, her forearm resting on his shoulder, her long white veil trailing down her back. They made a handsome couple. She wondered if they had been happy in Bodie. According to the guidebook, Cain became the town’s principal property owner.
She passed the sawmill, the Seiler House, the Cameron House, the Lester Bell house, the Mendocini House, the house of Pat Reddy, a one-armed attorney who was well-known through the west for his ability to defend criminals, union members, and the underdog in general. It was with a sense of trepidation that she approached the jail. Today, there was no one else nearby, no other tourists in sight.
She approached the barred window slowly, took a deep breath, and looked inside.
Nothing met her gaze but an empty room. She felt a deep sense of relief, and a vague sense of disappointment. “You really do need a vacation,” she muttered.
And then she felt it again, a sudden whisper of cold air that raised goose bumps along her arms and sent a chill down her spine. She grasped the iron bars in her hands. They were firm. Cold. Tangible.
She clung to them as the air inside the cell began to shimmer and then she saw him, standing against the far wall, his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers. He looked solid and real, not ghostlike at all. As if sensing her there, he looked up, his gaze catching hers. Something intangible flowed between them. She felt his anger at being imprisoned, his bitterness. His despair.
This can’t be happening. Yet even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was real…maybe the most real, or unreal, moment of her whole life.
And then, as quickly as the image had appeared, it was gone. She stood there for several minutes, trying to convince herself she hadn’t seen what she had seen. Her hands were trembling when she let go of the bars. Her legs were too weak to support her and she sat down, her back against the jail’s rough-hewn wooden exterior. Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. She couldn’t deny what she had seen this time. It hadn’t been her imagination. She had seen him. Alejandro Valverde. But why? What did it mean?
The thought plagued her the rest of the day. Feeling suddenly restless, she stood up and began walking up and down the streets, streets Alejandro Valverde had walked on over a hundred years ago. Had he shopped at the Boone Store? Played cards at the Sawdust Corner Saloon? Wandered the streets of Chinatown?
Later, she sat on the hillside, watching the other tourists, contemplating the changing shadows of daylight as the sun moved across the sky. The setting sun cast shimmering orange highlights on the buildings, making them look as though they were on fire.
Finally, it was six forty-five. Rising, she dusted off her shorts and started walking down the hill to meet Clark McDonald.
Chapter Three
Shaye was back at the museum a few minutes before seven. Clark McDonald was waiting for her out on the boardwalk.
“You’re early,” he remarked.
“So are you.”
“Well, there’s a good reason for that,” he said, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. “After all, it’s not every day that I get to have dinner with a pretty tourist.”
Shaye laughed self-consciously. She had never thought of herself as pretty. She wasn’t ugly by any means, but she wasn’t sure she qualified as pretty. Her shoulder-length hair was an unremarkable shade of brown. Her eyes were green. Her figure was okay, perhaps a little on the skinny side. She had nice legs though. Long, slender, and tan. They were, she thought, her only vani
ty.
“It must have been quite a long day for you,” Clark remarked as they walked through the now deserted ghost town. “Once you’ve toured the town, there’s not much else to do.”
She hesitated before replying. “It was an interesting day.”
He looked at her askance a moment, but she wasn’t ready yet to discuss what she had seen, or thought she had seen, at the jail.
“I noticed one of the houses is called the McDonald house,” Shaye remarked. “Any relation?”
“No, ‘fraid not.”
They walked down Green Street, past Main, and made a right turn on Wood Street. They passed several houses until they came to one with a wooden sign on the side that said Employee Residence. Like all the other houses in Bodie, it was made of time-weathered wood. The picket fence sagged, the gate hung from one hinge, the stairs were crooked.
“Is this where you live?” Shaye asked dubiously.
Clark chuckled. “I admit, it doesn’t look like much on the outside, but I assure you the inside is a lot more modern.”
She followed him through the rickety gate, climbed the three stairs to the porch, stood to one side while he unlocked the door, then held it open for her. “Come on in.”
Shaye crossed the threshold, and found herself in an average-sized living room, furnished with a green and tan plain sofa, a dark green easy chair, and a couple of mahogany end tables. The walls were painted off-white, there were a couple of colorful throw rugs on the floor, an old-fashioned looking clock hung on the wall over the brick fireplace.
McDonald closed the door behind her. “Would you like to take a look around?”
“Sure.”
“Here, let me take that.” Clark took her backpack and set it on a ladder-back chair beside the front door.
“Well, this is the living room,” Clark said, and went on to explain that the shell of the house was original, but the inside had been modernized to accommodate the employees who lived there. It was a large house: living room, kitchen, bathroom, and two fair-sized bedrooms.
“Do the park rangers live here year round?” Shaye asked.
“Only a couple of us stay all year. I’m one of them. The winters can be rough, and we don’t get many tourists. Do you want to keep me company while I fix dinner?”
Journey to Yesterday Page 2
