Journey to Rhyolite

By Steve Bartholomew

Nathaniel had his reasons for making his journey to Rhyolite. Rhyolite was the greatest boom town in the west, with a population of ten thousand and growing fast. Nathaniel hoped to find what had been taken from him—taken by the snallygaster, that old legend from the back hills of Maryland. Snallygaster was that four legged flying snake that would snatch away whatever you most valued when you turned your back. It took away Annabelle, the love of his life. At least, that was the way he felt. Now he was here in Rhyolite, to make his fortune, to find Annabelle—and to look up the man he had murdered back in Baltimore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Gopher Books
• Release date: Sep 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215114629

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

Book preview

Dedication

To Nathaniel Hawthorne

a good example is never out of date.

Acknowledgements

Iwish to acknowledge the help of Suzy McCoy, Curator of the Beatty Museum, Beatty NV, in making numerous historical documents about Rhyolite available to the general public.

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.

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 be 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.

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.

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