Journey to Rhyolite
Steve Bartholomew
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Published by NorLightsPress at Smashwords
Copyright (C) 2009 by Steve Bartholomew
Discover other titles by Steve Bartholomew at Smashwords.com
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Dedication
To Nathaniel Hawthorne,
a good example is never out of date.
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Acknowledgements
I wish to acknowledge the help of Suzy McCoy, Curator of the Beatty Museum, Beatty NV, in making numerous historical documents about Rhyolite available to the general public.
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Foreword
Historical Note
On August 8, 1904, Shorty Harris and Ed Cross found gold in the desert a few miles east of Death Valley. In less than two years, two new communities had sprung into existence: the town of Bullfrog, and the nearby city of Rhyolite. Historians estimate that by 1908, the population of Rhyolite had reached 10,000.
The city boasted all modern conveniences: electric lights, telegraph, telephone, ice plant, swimming pools, two hospitals, banks and a stock exchange, as well as a red light district, forty saloons, two ice cream parlors, a book store and, oh yes, a couple of churches. Three railroads ran through the town.
Rhyolite was the queen of boom towns, destined to become the capital of Nevada. The citizens constructed a brand new, three-story school building, too large for the number of students, but build they did, in anticipation of the crowds that would soon arrive.
It didn't work out that way. The gold vein ran out. Investors disappeared. The town couldn't live on optimism alone. The population vanished. In 1910, the street lights were turned off. Today, Rhyolite is remembered by her ruins, and for her brave heart.
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Chapter One
Summer, 1908
He squinted into the distance at what appeared to be a girl standing in the middle of the road. Surely, not out here in the desert, half way between Beatty and Rhyolite. It was this damned heat that transformed the landscape into unrecognizable shapes. Or maybe the thin air at this altitude. Probably one of those weird wasteland trees that sometimes look like human figures. Of course, half way only meant another two or three miles to town, but the temperature out here had to 110 and no shade. This country felt different from any he'd known before. He wanted to curse at his mule, just to be cursing at something.
But sure enough, as he drew closer, there she stood, wearing a long dress and a bonnet. He pulled on the reins and stopped his mule and wagon. For a long moment he sat there looking. By her face, he thought she was maybe fourteen or fifteen. She carried nothing but a small bag in one hand.
Finally, she said, "Can I have a ride, mister?" Her voice cracked a bit, like she might be really thirsty.
"Sure. Climb on up. Care for a drink?" He passed her the canteen; she uncorked and took a long swig of warm water. He flicked the reins to get the mule moving and wondered how long the girl might have survived out here, hadn't he come along.
She sat, looking straight ahead. He waited for her to tell him what she was doing out here alone in the heat. Instead, after a bit she said, "How come you didn't take the train? Instead of driving this funny wagon?"
He glanced at her and thought about that. "This wagon is my business. I need the equipment. My name's Nathaniel. Nathaniel Strange."
She nodded and said, "What's your business?"
"I'm an artist." He waited a moment, then frowned. "When someone tells you his name, it's polite to say what yours is."
"Salome Jezebel," she said, still looking straight ahead.
"Did you make up that name?"
"Yes."
"Think I'll call you Sally. You gonna tell me what you're doing out here in the desert at high noon all by yourself?"
"Does I have to?"
He shrugged. "No, I s'pose not. Guess I'm just curious."
She sat stiff and silent, sweat dripping from her chin. After a while, she reached for the canteen and took another drink. "I ran away from home."
"You don't talk like you're from around here. From the South, aren't you? Louisiana, maybe?"
"Mississippi. I didn't exactly run away from home, 'cause I wasn't home. I was being held prisoner. In Texas."
"Really?" He turned to stare at her. "How did you escape?"
"It was a boarding school for girls. A Bible school. My parents sent me there because I wouldn't behave. It was really kind of fun for awhile. Saturday nights, me and another girl used to climb out the window and catch a ride into town. Fellas would buy us drinks. Sometimes I'd get up on a table and sing. It was fun, but I got tired of it all, so I 'scaped."
He thought about that. "Can't say as how I blame you. But you haven't answered my question. You're a long way from Texas or Mississippi."
She gave him a quick, suspicious glance. "You're not from around here either, by the way you talk. You sound like you're a long way from home."
"You're right about that. I'm from Maryland, lately from Baltimore. I came out here to get rich, like everybody else. Is that why you came?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that."
For some time they traveled in silence, the gravel road noisy under the mule's hooves. They saw no other wagons or trucks along the road. Most people had the good sense to take the train these days. Then in the distance. the town shimmered through the heat.
"I caught a ride on a motor truck," she said, "from Beatty. It was a man driving mining supplies. He wanted to stop and make me do some things I didn't feel like doing. So I got out. I figured I could get a ride with somebody else. But I waited a long time b'fore you came along."
He frowned. "You're lucky he let you go without hurting you."
She shook her head. "No, it wasn't luck." She dipped a hand into her bag and withdrew a small nickel-plated revolver. "He was lucky I don't know how to drive, or I would've taken his truck."
He made sure she was pointing the gun away from him. Then he laughed, long and hard.
The mule took its time pulling the last uphill stretch into town.
"What's that noise," she said, craning her neck. "I heard it back a ways, but it's louder, now."
"That, I think, would be the stamping mill. Up in the mine."
As they approached the outskirts, he said, "Here it is, Rhyolite. Fastest growing town in Nevada. I heard they're thinking of making it the capital."
They spent some time riding slowly along the streets, inspecting the city. On the outskirts of town there were still a few tents, folks who'd just moved in and hadn't yet got around to building houses.
"Were you headed anywhere in particular?" he asked
She studied the rows of neat new houses. There were a lot of people about. She pointed at the street corner ahead.
"You could let me off there, I guess." She pointed. "I just need to find a good whore house."
"What?" He wasn't sure he'd heard her right.
She looked at him and shrugged.
"A girl has to make a living. It's better than working in a laundry, ain't it? I'll ask somebody where that part of town is. Usually a policeman would know."
He noticed a copper leaning against a lamp post on the corner where she'd pointed. He stopped the wagon.
"Now listen here, Sally--"
"Don't try to talk me out of it. And don't you try to stop me. You're not my parent or guardian."
She was right of course, he couldn't stop her. He cleared his throat. "Okay, I won't try to stop you. You go right ahead. I might suggest, however, you give this matter a little more thought. There's lots of other ways a bright girl like you could make a living, 'specially in a wealthy town like this. What say we go get something to eat and--"
"Name one."
"Say what?"
"Name one other way I could make a living here."
He thought fast. "Well. Just for starters, I could hire you on as my helper. I mean, my assistant. I expect to do a good business here, once I get established, which shouldn't take long. There's a lot of things you could do to lighten my burden. I'd even pay you, say, a fourth of my profits." She didn't say a word, just stared at him, so he flicked the reins and the mule started moving again. The wagon stopped in front of a busy-looking Chinese restaurant. He climbed down and hitched the mule. After hesitating a moment, she followed.
"I thought you said you were an artist."
"That I did."
"Only artists I ever heard of were starving."
He grinned. "Not this one. At least not yet. What do you think of the wagon?"
She studied the gaudily painted wagon side. "N. Strange," she read. "Artiste of Epidermia. What kind of artist is that?"
"Tattoos, my lady. Tattoo artist." He turned and led the way into the restaurant.
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She showed no reluctance to devour a hearty helping of chow mein. To his surprise, she used chop sticks. "A sailor showed me how, once," she explained. Nathaniel used a fork.
"I bought yonder wagon from a traveling dentist in Missouri," he told her. "He was ready to retire. Wait till you see the inside. What I like best is the dentist chair. And it has a dentist drill powered by foot pedal. I figured out how to make it hold a needle and go up and down instead of spinning. It'll revolutionize the art of tattoo. And there's a bed that folds down--"
"One third," she said.
"Excuse?"
"I get one third of the profits."
"That's blackmail." For a moment he considered telling her to go find the red light district. Then he sighed. It had been a long day. "All right, one third."
After eating, they strolled the street, watching people and looking around. Lots of men were hurrying in either direction along Golden Street. Shift change at the mine, Nathanial figured.
After arriving back at his wagon, he said, "They tell me it gets cold here in the winter. Lots of snow. Because it's so high up, you see."
"Why do you have that funny star thing painted there?" She pointed at the door of his wagon.
"That? You may notice that star has seven points. It's kinda faded after the long trip, but it keeps away the snallygaster."
She studied his face to see if he was joking. He wasn't. "All right. What in hell is a snallygaster?"
"You should watch your language, Sally. The snallygaster is serious business. At least it is where I come from, the back country of Maryland. I can't say for sure if there's any out west, here, but there's no point taking chances." Before she could ask more questions, he untied the mule and climbed up to the driver's seat.
It didn't take long to find a place to camp. He paid the owner of a livery stable one dollar to use his side lot for a month. Then he unhitched and led his mule to the stable. He regarded the set-up with satisfaction; his lot was right on the main road leading to the mine. Tomorrow, he'd put up his big sign where all the miners could see it.
"What now?" she asked.
He turned with a start. For a moment he'd forgotten all about the girl. She was sitting on the wagon tongue, watching him.
He shrugged. "It's getting late. If I wasn't so tired I'd go hunt up a bath house. You could probably use a bath yourself, excuse me for saying so. Tomorrow I'll show you some things you have to do to earn your keep, running errands and such. Can you cook?"
"No."
"Then you'll have to learn. Right now I'm almost ready to turn in. There's only enough room in the wagon for one person, and no, it won't be you. For now you can make your camp under the wagon. Maybe later I'll find you a tent, or figure out something else. Come on inside so you can get some bedding." He opened the door and climbed in; she followed without a word. Within, he rummaged in cabinets and lockers for some blankets and a pillow.
She said, "Did you draw these pitchers?"
"Yes." He saw she was examining some sketches tacked to the wall. "Those are all preliminary designs. Sometimes I'll work on a picture for a month or two before I'm happy with it, ready for the final version. The hardest part is getting the colors right, 'specially the reds. But I think I'm on the right track. I do believe I have the best reds in the trade. Most artists in my field only use primary colors, but I've been developing a pastel effect. Pretty good, if I do say so."
"Do you have any tattoos yourself?"
"Just a couple. But I didn't do them myself. One was done by a real master of the art, Mr. Lu. Chinee he was. A hundred and two when he passed on. Taught me everything he knew."
"Can I see?"
"Wouldn't be quite proper." He hesitated. "Oh well, I guess it don't matter. Have a look. I can only see it in the mirror, myself." He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off, then turned around so she could view his back.
"That's beautiful, Nathaniel. All blue, green, and yellow. What is it, some kind of dragon?"
He put his shirt back on. "Not quite. It's a snallygaster. A bird-snake with two sets of legs. Few have seen one. Pray you never do."
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The next morning he didn't feel like spending cash again at a restaurant, so he boiled oatmeal on the little coal stove in the wagon. It was the same stove he used for sterilizing needles. He insisted she watch, so she would know how to do both jobs. She didn't appear too interested.
They were sitting outside finishing their meal when a large man left the road and strolled over. He wore a miner's cap and looked to be the type who could break rocks with his bare hands.
"You make tattoos?" he said.
"Sure do, mister." He'd only just put up his sign. "I guess you spotted my wagon out here. Would you be in the market for some art work?"
"Yah. We go inside?"
He led the man into the wagon and seated him in the dentist chair. "I'm Nathaniel. Nathaniel Strange, artiste of epidermia extraordinaire."
"My name Omar. From Poland."
"Ah. A long way from home. But then, so am I. Do you have any idea what sort of picture you'd like? Or where you want it?"
"Yah." He slipped off his jacket. The man had several other tattoos, including a spread eagle on his chest, and a heart on his left shoulder with a couple of words in Polish. A crossed pickaxe and shovel decorated his other shoulder. There was nothing on his back as yet. From his pants pocket Omar withdrew a billfold and took out a twenty dollar bill.
Nathaniel gave an involuntary start. It had been a long time since he'd seen one of those. "I don't charge quite that much, Omar. . ."
"Is not to pay you with. Is the picture I want. On my back."
"Ah. I think I understand. You want money tattooed on your back. I'm not sure if that's legal. We might both be charged with counterfeiting."
Omar scowled. "The Hell. You put that on my back, you keep the bill."
"Oh. Well, in that case, Sally! Get out of the wagon! No peeking."
At that, Omar grinned and winked. "Is okay, let her watch. Maybe she never seen a real man before."
Nathaniel almost said I wouldn't bet on it, but managed to keep his mouth shut. He had Omar lie face down on the bunk while he maneuvered the dentist drill device over his left shoulder. He applied some green ink, began pumping the foot treadle, and went to work.
He labored for an hour straight, drawing quickly, free hand, the twenty laid out nearby as a model. Finally, he straightened up. Sally came closer to peer at his handiwork.
"What do you think?"
She squinted. "Not bad. But it ain't totally finished. You left out a few things, like the serial number."
"Very observant. I was only using green ink. I'd like to wait a few days for the skin to heal. Then, if Omar would like to come back, I'll put in some finishing touches. At no extra charge, of course."
Omar sat up. "I want to see."
Nathaniel handed him a mirror and held a second glass behind so he could see his own back.
"Look pretty good," he said. "Not bad. I come back next week. From now on, I always have money even if I'm broke."
"How you like working in the mines?" Sally asked.
He grinned. "Hard work, good pay. I'm in the Miner's Union, you bet. I work in copper before, but this pays better. Lots of money around this place. Maybe when I save up enough, I buy me a hotel or a livery stable, we'll see." He gave her a wink.
"See you next week," Nathaniel said as the man made his way out of the wagon. He felt relieved to see him go; the man's sheer size and muscles made him nervous.
"That's six dollars and sixty six cents," Sally said. "The number of the Beast."
"Excuse me?"
"One third of twenty dollars. I know how to figure. You owe me one third of the profits."
He stared at her. "First of all, you haven't done any work yet. Secondly, it's not clear profit, there's overhead. The cost of ink. . ." He broke off under her stare. "Oh, what the hell. You'll have to wait till I go to the bank. I haven't seen a bill that size in months."
They had three more clients before 1 p.m. He charged the normal rate, from fifty cents to a dollar, depending on the size of the job and how long it took. Normally, he didn't work more than an hour at a time. He had Sally do some minor chores, cleaning the stove and boiling needles. He half hoped she might refuse, to give him an excuse not to pay her. But she raised no objection.
"Why did you come here to the desert?" she asked. "Why not a waterfront town? I thought it was mostly sailors who like tattoos."
"Tried that, back on the waterfront at Baltimore. Too much competition. Not that any of the other artists were good as me. Most of them were hacks--couldn't draw worth a damn. Then I heard about the gold rush here. I believe I'm the first professional artist to arrive in town. Anyway, you're wrong. Miners appreciate epidermia art as much as sailors. I guess you decided to come here for about the same reasons I did."
"Miners make more money than sailors," she agreed.
He looked at all the cash he'd taken in so far that day: twenty-two dollars. He'd not seen that much all at once since St. Louis. His stomach growled.
"Go hang up the Closed sign," he said. "The larder's getting low. We need to go into town for some grub. I'll get that bill changed at the bank first."
"Then do I get paid?"
"Yes, but you have to share in the food expense. I'll give you five."
She muttered something under her breath. He didn't ask her what it was.
A few minutes later she said, "Will you give me a tattoo if I ask nice?"
"No," he said.
~~~~
At the bank, the teller gave both of them a suspicious look. He held the bill up to the light before making change in smaller bills and coins. He was a young man with a handlebar mustache too large for his face.
"And who would I see about opening an account here, young man?" Nathaniel asked.
"That would be Mr. Cook. You should see his receptionist over there first."
"Perhaps I shall. Naturally, I'll need some more information about your establishment's assets and debits first. With a deposit of the size I have in mind, I shouldn't trust a firm with a shaky foundation. Thank you, young man." He turned and walked out. Sally followed along.
"That was good," she said.
"What was?"
She shrugged. They walked down to a produce store and a nearby general store, where he bought as much as they could both carry, for five dollars and twenty-nine cents. It was still midafternoon when he stowed everything away in the wagon.
"There probably won't be any more clients until eight or nine this evening," he said, "when the day shift leaves the mine. Still enough light then to work one or two more. Meanwhile, you're off duty. You could go buy yourself some clothes, or something. I want to make some community contacts."
"And how do you propose to do that?"
"Why, by visiting an establishment frequented by the best and most respectable citizens of Rhyolite. That would be the 66 Club Saloon, three blocks from the railroad station. Or so the miners inform me. I refer to my last two clients, of course."
"Why can't I come too?"
He frowned. "Now, that would not be at all proper. Respectable ladies do not enter saloons."
"I ain't respectable."
He sighed. "As long as you're working for me, I would like you to pretend. Now go buy yourself a nice respectable dress."
~~~~
At the saloon, he took time to admire the mahogany bar. He ordered a cold beer, chilled by ice from the Rhyolite ice house. Then he wandered into a friendly poker game and politely watched and waited.
"Care to participate, Mister?" the man in a dark suit and tie said. After Nathaniel sat down, the man extended a hand. "The name is Fish, Edmund J. Fish. Come to see me if you're interested in real estate. These other two gents here are Collins, mining, and Hernandez, of the Herald."
They played a couple of hands in silence, each of them winning or losing a dollar or two. Nathaniel asked, "So how's business around here, Mister Fish? In real estate, I mean."
Fish gave him a well-practiced smile. "Booming, sir, booming. In fact, this may prove to be the greatest boom in the history of the west. Although, I'll admit the San Francisco earthquake was something of a setback, since it diverted some investment funds that might have come our way. But we're recovering. We have three railways, telephone, telegraph, electricity, you name it. Forgive me, but I don't believe you mentioned your line of business. . .?"
"You might say I'm an entrepreneur. Traveling artist and investor."
"Artist, eh? A Bohemian, I take it. No offense, just joking. Oh, say, do you know who just walked up to the end of the bar?"
Nathaniel turned to see a small, decrepit-looking man in seedy clothes and a funny little hat. "Should I know that gentleman?"
"That there is Shorty Harris. He comes in here because he knows somebody will always buy him a drink. I'll buy him one myself if no one else does."
"And who is Shorty Harris?"
"You haven't heard? He started this whole business. Back in '04. Him and Ernest Cross. Shorty made the first strike, the green Bullfrog ore. He could have been a millionaire by now, but he got drunk one night and sold out his claims for less than a thousand dollars. Good old Shorty. He's still prospecting."
Hernandez frowned. "Are we playing poker, or not?"
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When he got back to the wagon, Sally was waiting on the steps. He'd half expected her to be gone. She was wearing a new dress, light blue, without the bonnet. Another young woman with flaming red hair leaned against the wagon side. She looked to be in her twenties.
"It's a nice town," Sally said. "I left my other dress at the Chinese laundry. "There's a bath house that's open all night. I want to try it later."
"And who would this young lady be?" he asked.
"Name's Catherine," the lady said, beaming. "Catherine Delight."
"Another made-up name, I assume."
"No!" Her eyes widened. "That's my real name. Anything wrong with it?"
"Cathy works at Madam Lamarr's house," Sally explained.
It took him a moment to realize what she meant. "Oh. I see. I guess you found your red light district."
"Sure did. It's only a few blocks from here, on the other side of Golden Street."
"And to what do I owe the honor of Cathy's visit?" he asked, unlocking the wagon's door.
"I hear tell you do good tattoos," she said.
"You heard true. Does this mean you wish to be illuminated?"
"Do I want to be what?"
"Illuminated. That's just how I think of my art. During the Middle Ages, monks used to spend many hours drawing pictures in ancient manuscripts, to make them more beautiful and valuable. I believe my own drawings do the same for the human body."
"Oh. Yeah, I guess that's what I want, all right. There was a tattoo man here three or four months back, but he wasn't too good. After he botched a few jobs, the miners ran him out of town."
"Well, I hope they won't have to do the same to me. Come on up in the wagon. I've had some experience illuminating ladies, three or four of your own profession, and several stage actresses. They all expressed great satisfaction."
She climbed inside, and he seated her in the dentist chair. She immediately pulled down the top of her bodice, exposing her breasts.
"This is my first one. I want a heart with an arrow through it, right there."
"Easy enough. And appropriate. I wouldn't be too hasty about getting more, though. One or two illuminations can make an attractive lady like yourself more so. But too many may be off-putting to some gentlemen."
She nodded, probably not paying much attention, and lay back to stare at the ceiling while he went to work. Sally sat close by to watch.
The curve of Catherine's left breast was a perfect canvas for his drawing, which took on a look of depth under his skilled hands. The colors were a challenge--red, fading to pink, with a blue arrow. There were few others who knew how to produce such brilliant tints. The point at the bottom of the heart just touched her nipple.
"All done," he said at last, holding up a mirror.
"That's beautiful," she said. "What do I owe you?"
"For you, milady, just a dollar. If you're truly happy with my work, you might mention me to some of the girls you work with."
She giggled and pulled up her dress.
When she had gone, he turned to Sally and said, "I appreciate you drumming up the business. But you oughtn't to hang around those establishments."
At that, she merely raised an eyebrow. "One third. Remember?"
He nodded. "I've been meaning to ask. Where did you find that revolver? On a drunken sailor?"
"Nope. Before I ran away, I broke into the headmistress's office. I found it in her desk. On top of the Bible."
"Did you take anything else?"
"Sure. Some money. That got me a train ticket as far as El Paso. I hitched the rest of the way."
"I just wondered."