Ricketsville

            The relentless wind propelled a tumbleweed across the deserted street. It stuck to a decaying porch in front of a weathered building. The entry door sagged on its one remaining hinge. A faded sign proclaimed: “Barbering and Tooth Extractions.” The wind moaned through its broken window. Ricketsville had seen better days.

            I turned the ignition off, and the Jeep’s leaky muffler fell silent. The wind picked up, generating creaking, clicking, and cracking noises.  Somewhere, a shutter was banging against a neglected building. A tin roof flapped with each gust. The town was as inviting as an empty tomb. I shivered at its cold, dead aura. It was not some place I wanted to stay, but linger I did. Curiosity, morbid and dark? No. It wasn’t that. It was greed, the pure, mean, selfish kind.

            It seemed odd that I had come seeking the one thing that had turned this town into an empty shell. Silver.  No, the mines hadn’t played out. They hadn’t flooded, and there had been no mine disaster. It was just politics. The nation would not expand its money supply by coining “Free Silver.” Ricketsville had died when the nation decided against a bimetallic monetary system.  It had literally been crucified on a Cross of Gold. William Jennings Bryan had been its only champion.

            Life goes on. Fifty miles away, copper was king. Still further away, big machines were extracting lithium. Men will dig for anything they find of value. Prices do change though.. Gold is not the only metal that has gone up. Hell, folks are getting rich recycling electronic scrap. Ricketsville had silver. And it was now worth eighty dollars an ounce. Eighty dollars! That’s a lot more than it was in 1897 when the mine went bust. Silver was hot, and I was going to get me some.

            Beyond the dilapidated buildings, I could see that the headframe of the old Silver Spoon mine was still standing. I would not have to stop by some watering hole in Apache Junction to pay a crusty old geezer five bucks for a map drawn on a napkin. The Dutchman be damned, this was a real mine. And it was in plain sight.

            Where to begin? I asked myself. Why the saloon, of course. I scanned the faded grey storefronts for swinging doors. There were none. Who the hell ran this mine? The Mormon Church? No proper Arizona mining town could exist without a saloon or two. Maybe ten or twelve, and the obligatory house of ill repute. They were the fabric of a hard-working miner’s life.

            I dodged a dust devil as it wound up the dusty street and gingerly stepped on the wooden sidewalk. The boards sagged and creaked, but they held. I peered through a broken window, then another. One building still had furniture. Against the wall were the remnants of a backbar. Someone had left in a hurry. The drawstring from a long-gone curtain still hung. It had a metal ring attached. It swayed limply by the broken window’s latch. Then I froze.

            There was a half-empty bottle of John Barleycorn on the table. The remnants of its aged cork lay next to it, along with an empty glass. Curious, I moved closer,  wondering if the stuff was still drinkable. Tempting, but unless I’m snakebit, I’ll pass. I leaned over to sniff the contents. I couldn’t tell if it was bourbon or horse piss. I noticed that the dust on the table and chair had been recently disturbed. Someone had been sitting there. Recently. That was weird. Had someone else been looking at my hidden silver bonanza?

            Then I heard a metallic click. I knew that sound, and it scared me. It was the unmistakable cocking of a hammer  as the cylinder of an old-time revolver rotated to the next chamber. It was probably an antique forty-four. Whoever it was, he had the drop on me. I started to turn, then thought better of it. Sweat beads formed on my brow. My heart was thumping like an army of line-dancers doing the Cotton-Eye Joe.

            “Don’t mean no harm,” I said, raising my arms slowly. “Just passing through. Thought I’d check this dump out.”

            There was no response. I glanced toward a cracked mirror on the back bar. The dirt obscured my view. I thought I saw a big man in rough clothes with his arm pointed my way. What had I gotten myself into?

“Now look here, I was just getting ready to leave. Been doing some rock hounding, nothing else. Gotta be home by supper. The wife is expecting me. All my friends in the Jeep Club know where I’m at.”

            There was no response. I looked intently at the dusty mirror.  I was sure I saw him use his gun hand to point toward the table. What did he want me to do? It was clear that the man put actions over words. Some men are like that. It was a man, wasn’t it? Couldn’t be a ghost. Ghosts don’t talk. Well, maybe Casper talks. In the cartoons. Then came a scratching noise, like hobnail boot scuffing the floor. Did I smell chewing tobacco? Hard to tell. My knees began to shake. I thought about my little four-year-old with her sweet smile as she looked up adoringly. What about my wife? Maybe I should treat her better. Give her a credit card. Skip GHappy Hour. I began to remember all my other misdeeds. Was it too late to fix them?

            “You want money? I ain’t got much. I’ll put my billfold right here. Don’t use that debit card before the first. I’m a bit overdrawn. The PIN is 0954. If you can’t remember it, I can write it in the dust.”

            I looked again at the mirror. The apparition seemed to relax a bit. I breathed easier. Most folks wouldn’t shoot someone for what little I had. Or would they?

            “You like Budweiser? I got some in the Jeep. All iced down. I can get you one. Two? Hell, I’ll get you the whole twelve pack. I’d drink a few with you, but I need to get along down the road. Maybe next time?”

            A  gust of wind blew through the broken window. I heard a soft, metallic double-click as if someone pulled back the hammer and gently let it fall on the chamber. Take it easy, I told myself, and you might not die today.

            Without looking toward my assailant, I turned to face the door. I took a step toward it and stopped. Nothing. I let my hands drop to my side and began walking toward the exit. I didn’t stop or look back until I reached the Jeep. I grabbed my trusty Coleman cooler and set it on the wooden sidewalk. I prayed the Jeep would start as I turned the key.

            Grr, grrr, grrrr,  cachunk.

            Crap! I had pressed the footfeed too far and flooded the damn thing. Don’t panic! You can clear it. Slowly press the pedal all the way to the floor and let some air in. Don’t you go jiggling that damn pedal and pump any more gas in. Just hold it on the floor and crank. Be patient. It usually works. What about that five-year-old battery? Well, it’s only an eight-mile walk back to Forest Road 186.

            The Jeep cranked forever as more tumbleweeds blew by. The whine of the starter seemed to grow slower. At last it caught. I babyed the throttle and one by one the cylinders began to fire. I promised God I would mend my ways as I shoved it into gear.

            A week later, I stopped by Sonic, where the Jeep Club hung out on Friday nights. The discussion centered around weird things encountered on the trail: rock formations, artifacts, petrogliphs, and so forth.

            Then one guy related a story that hit home.

            “On Monday, I drove out to Ricketsville. You won’t guess what I found.”

            “The lost San Raphael Mine?”

            “Nah, somebody left a cooler full of Bud in front of one of those old buildings.”

            I was glad no one looked my way as I gasped in disgust. Now I had to go back to see if my wallet was still there.

Main Menu– http://www.azrockdodger.com