Ghost town.
Arizona, October morning. A young couple in the latest in high tech hiking gear stopped their S.U.V. in a dusty mine tailing area in the Chiracahua foothills. Thier maps said 'Historical area, former site of Smithville.'
It was all stark mountain and sparse desert for miles around.
The air was clear, and warm. Wind kicked up little twisters of dust, leaving thier teeth gritty.
The trail led past some old metal buildings, doors hanging off the hinges.
They were startled to see someone there.
‘Hello, having a good walk around? You’re welcome to fill your canteen, the water’s good here, I’ve been drinking it most of my life,it must be alright!'
An old man in a cracked Stetson was sitting on the stoop of a rusted shack. There was a hand pump and a stone basin he gestured to. They pumped the handle, and put thier hands under the spigot, then tasted the cool pure water. They thanked him, and asked how he came to be there alone. He said he wasn't alone, exactly. Still had work to do.
'This used to be quite a town, we had School, Church, everything.
Gold was found here in the mid eighteen hundreds. If the forty niners could read Spanish maps, all they had to do was see the word ‘Oro’ to discover it all over the west. Rio de Oro, Oro Valle, all over, Oro. There was a gold smelter, made of adobe bricks, burnt to green and black glass on the inside. Six inches thick. It’s right over here, been there since the fifteenth century, I've heard say.
There’s still gold here, It washes out every spring, down the crick. I got me some special spots. Had ‘em for years. Everbody else left for better diggings, or some such. I’m fine with what I got.
Don’t go poking in the mineworks, they're dangerous. Cave ins all the time. The old timbers’r rotted through, and there are levels dug under some spots ready to crumble. Many men died in those lower diggings. A whole gang of Chinamen fell into a hole there. Chain ganged, the first few fell, and pulled the rest after. They are still down there. Hair in a queue. Opium pipes in their bindles.
I hear ‘em sometimes. Chinese music, kinda tinkly, and drums. They had a drum keep time with the hammers. Clink! Clink! It’s either that or wind blowin' chains hanging off the machinery. Now it’s just a pile of rust.
Over there was the assay office, and the company store. Down there a ways was the shivaree, decent women never went there.
Fine with me! I could get a drink, a meal and have some hi jinks there,long time ago.
I was married, once. But after my wife died, I went kinda wild.
Over here is the cemetery, the cat has been sitting on that grave for all it’s nine lives, I guess.
The grave is a little girl, died of thirst. Family was headed to California.
She wandered off looking for her cat, and got lost. Her body was found fifteen miles from here. Her folks decided to stay after that.
They couldn't leave thier little girl alone in the desert.
Some others here. That marker’s the Sheriff, shot defending the holdup man who stole the payroll. The crowd got ‘em both. The robber was strung up though. That’s him over there, pile of rocks on the grave.
This tall one with the flowers is the Schoolteacher, she died of the flu. She hated it here, but never left. Lots of people never left.
Make sure you got enough water. Give me a holler when you come back on through.’
The hikers went on their way, after patiently listening to the decrepit old codger ramble on. As the sky turned purple and red, they trudged back across the desert toward the S.U.V.
The old corrugated buildings rattled and banged. There was a musical clinking. The cat still sat on the grave. And the codger’s hat was atop another.
Curious, the couple walked over to look.
It read:
‘ John Horatio Smith
Friend to all.
Founded town of Smithville as a travelers stop
providing water for all who passed this way.
1825-1901 ’
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