Norton, Andre - Novel 32 (18 page)

"Monuments?"

"That's how they staked their claims in the
old days. A man built a pile of
stones and put
a tin
can inside, sealing in the can the description of the section he claimed.
Sometimes it
might
be weeks before he could get in to register
it legally. Well, Gordon did that in '60 on his
first trip before the war broke
out. Then he
could
not get back here until the army came in
again.
He found that claim was a rich one—the
Western
Star. Later he opened up the Good
Chance,
too. Sold out in eighteen-eighty and
went
to
California
. He was getting along in
years and wanted to live soft for
a while. But
others
had followed him. Now—angle right
here—"

The station wagon bumped on. Sometimes
they could still see the old ruts
of the forgotten
road,
other times there were no marks at all. They came closer and closer to the
hills and
now more
ruts showed plainly. The car climbed
up a small hill, then a higher one. Father
stopped there so all could see
ahead into a dip
between
the hills, which grew taller the farther
they stretched away.

There were buildings ahead. Some were of
wood, some of adobe. Most stood in two strag
gling lines with what might have once been a
street between. More were scattered around on
the slopes of the hills. Some no longer had
roofs.
In others part of a wall had fallen, letting
the
roof sag at a corner.

"That's
Darringer
,"
Lucas told them.

Father drove the car very slowly down the
slope and into the main street, moving between
buildings where doors and windows had bits of
board
nailed across them. Above the doors of some where faded names, mostly so far
gone
they could not be read at all.

"See that?" Lucas half-turned in his seat to
point out one building to the
children. "That's
the end of the Bright Stage Line—the
Darringer
office."

"Look, Dad, see? It says 'sheriff!" Neal
pointed to the next building.

Baron barked and pushed his head between
Neal and
Toliver
.
Even Shan put his forepaws
on the edge of the window to look out.

"Can we go and look inside, Daddy?"
Parky
asked. "I want to see the
sheriffs
office!"

"Shades of Wyatt
Earp
,"
laughed Lucas.
Then
he looked at them all, his face once more
sober. "We stick together. You don't go any
place unless we say so,
understand? The boards
in the floors are rotten, the walls and roofs
shaky—it could be
dangerous."

"You mind what Lucas says." Father backed

Ghost Town

him
sternly. "This is no place
to go exploring
on
one's own."

They had started very early, before the sun
was up. Though it was much later
now, there
were
still clouds overhead. Lucas studied those
thoughtfully as they got out of the car.

"Rain coming.
We'd better see if any build
ing can give us shelter if it
hits hard." He had
a flashlight ready as they came to the rotted
boardwalk that led to the doors
of the old stage
station
and the
sheriffs
office.

The windows of both were boarded up by
slats of wood crisscrossed over
them. But their
doors
hung open. Lucas flashed his light into
a dim interior and then walked forward cautiously. They
could hear him stamping inside
the stage office as if to make sure the floor was
safe. Then he waved to them from
the door.

"This is okay. Not much left, though."

They crowded in behind Father, Shan clinging to
Christie's shoulder, Baron nosing around
and then giving a big sneeze as if he had sniffed
up a lot of dust. There was a
counter across the
room
and shelves in the wall behind it. An old
rolltop
desk with its top stuck halfway
down
stood to one
side. Next to that was an iron safe
with gold lettering—Bright Stage Line. Dust
and dead flies lay everywhere.
Christie thought it looked miserable but Father had out his cam
era with flash bulbs and was
taking pictures.

"How about the
sheriffs
office, Dad?" Neal
asked. "If it's all right to go in there, it
ought
to be more exciting than
this—"

"Right—sheriff s office it is."

They detoured around the worst holes in the
plank walk and for the second time Lucas went
in first.

"Smells funny," Perks whispered to Chris
tie, and Christie agreed,
lingering by the door
with
Libby as the boys pushed in.

"Father, if we promise to stay with the car,
can we stay outside?"
Christie wanted to
know.
She did not like the darkness
nor
the
smells at all. And there was
nothing to see really
but
old broken furniture and floors with holes in them.

"Right by the car, yes." He was busy taking
pictures again.

The two older girls, trailed by Perks, went
out. Christie breathed the fresh
air thankfully
and
looked around with more interest at the
town
itself. There was no sun breaking through
the
clouds and it felt chilly. She was glad they
had brought sweaters.

"I wonder if any girls like us ever lived
here?
" She looked down the street
and the lines
of falling-to-pieces
buildings and tried to imag
ine what
Darringer
had been long ago—that was
easier to do than when one looked at all the broken
rooms inside.

"There must have been some children,"

Libby said. "Maybe there's a school some
where. See that steeple—that was a
church."

The steeple was crooked—another wind
storm might well send it
crashing to the ground.
Shan kicked to get down and Christie let him jump into the thick dust of
the street, but kept
careful
hold on his leash. He smelled the ground
and then sneezed as Baron had done. Nor did
he pull at the leash as if he
wanted to go off on his own.

They could hear voices from the sheriff's
office, but the rest of the town
was very quiet.
Suddenly
a crash startled them all.

"Christie!" Father shouted.

"We're here!"

He ran out of the office looking anxious.
"That noise—"

"It came from there somewhere." She
pointed.

"Probably part of an old
building falling.
See? That's
why you must not go off on your
own."

That
was the last thing Christie wanted to do.
The
town was—spooky. It made her feel as if people were hiding, peeking at her from
be
tween the slats nailed over the
windows or from
behind the sagging
doors. She could understand
very well
why such places were called "ghost
towns." Perhaps they really were homes for
the ghosts of a
town that had once been so busy
and alive.

Father and Lucas went into two more of the
old buildings—a bank and a
saloon—with Father
taking
pictures.
Though this time he told the
boys to stay out also.
That crash seemed to
have changed his mind about any
young ex
plorers who
might well get into trouble.

"The interiors are in a better state than you
would think," Christie heard
him tell Lucas.
"Maybe
something can be done here after all
that wouldn't cost a fortune. We could restore
just the main attractions."

"I'm
wondering about Gordon House—down
there at
the end of the street. It was considered
quite a showplace in its day." Lucas pointed
to a building that seemed larger and in better
condition than those around it. The lower story
was of stone and above that was a second floor
of wood with a roofed balcony running along
the whole front.

"Gordon built it and made it into a hotel. It was
considered pretty fancy for that time and
this place. It's probably been a shelter for every
drifter passing through since
then. But if
it's
storm tight, we'll need it—and soon."

"I'll take the car as close up as I can get it."

When
the station wagon pulled up before the
Gordon
House, Christie was impressed. It
seemed
to have more life about it than the rest
of the buildings. Lucas crossed the lower porch
and pushed against double doors, the upper
parts of which were filled in places with still
unbroken panes of glass colored dark red,
yel
low, green, and blue.

The others followed him into a wide room
that had a staircase up one side.
In the middle was a big round seat with dusty cushions still
on it. There was a desk with a
pigeonholed wall
cupboard
behind, and tatters of lace curtains
hung before the boarded-up windows. Lucas
and Father both used flashlights
and the gleam
of
those showed an archway into another room,
where there were tables and chairs.

"Lobby, dining room— Even the old ledger
was left." Lucas went to the
desk and blew a
cloud
of dust off the big book lying there.
"Wonder who registered last."

He opened the book, sending up more puffs
of dust. "Let's see
now—January
nineteen
twenty
—just one entry—Philip Briggs,
San
Francisco
."

"Now we'll make our entry legal." Lucas
took a pen from his shirt pocket.

" 'April, nineteen eighty, Lucas
Wildhorse
,
Libby
Wildhorse
,
Toliver
Wildhorse
, Ten Mile
Station, Arizona.'
Your
turn,
Harvey
."

He passed the pen to Father, who, smiling,
wrote in turn, reading aloud as he
went:
" 'Harvey
Kimball, Christie Kimball, Neal
Kimball, Patrick and Patricia Kimball, Thai
Shan Kimball, Baron Kimball, Ten
Mile Sta
tion,
Arizona
.' "

"We may not be regular overnight guests,"
he added, "but
I think we can make good use of a table and few chairs and—food—right
now."

The rain broke so suddenly it was almost an
explosion of water and wind. It
pounded against
4he
walls, drove in through the broken panes
of the big door.

"We'll
make a dash for the baskets. You chil
dren
stay right here," Father ordered before he
and Lucas ran for the station wagon. Luckily
that had been parked close to the porch. Father
and
Lucas both had wet shirts before they were
back
with baskets and canteens.

"Here." Father tossed a roll of paper tow
eling to Christie. "You
children wipe off one of the tables. Listen!" He paused and for a
moment all they could hear was the wild drum
ming of the rain. "This sounds like a regular
cloudburst. At least this place seems
dry—if
you keep away from the
door."

The rain swept in through the broken panes
almost as far as the round seat
in the lobby.
Now the
whole of the inside of the hotel was very dark and gloomy. Even their
flashlights
were
swallowed up into small glows.

Christie, as she dusted the nearest table,
working beside Libby, with Neal
and
Toliver
just across from her, found herself looking over
her shoulder now and then into
corners that
seemed
very dark indeed. But they were all
here together—she was not alone—and they
were safe out of the storm. She wadded up the
dirty paper and left it on another table. Shan
hissed fretfully and she picked him up to hold
tight. There was nothing to be afraid of here—
surely there was not.