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Chapter 2 - The Ghost Town
J. R. "BOB" Dobbs awoke to a cool breeze and a sun that threatened to glower ferociously over him all day long. "A fine day to run out of water," he joshed himself, draining his canteen.
He gathered up his gear and slung it over the saddle. He paused a moment to light his pipe with an ember from the fire before he scattered the ashes with his bootheel and mounted his horse. He was excited because he was almost home.
After "BOB" left Jane had sold the house in the country and moved into a cheaper, smaller place in a little town outside of Dallas. She had never liked country living, but she had endured it, hoping J. R. wouldn't face as many of the nefarious influences there as he would have done in the city. Once he was grown, hoever, there was little she could do to protect him from the world and she was altogether pleased to be moving back into town again.
"BOB" had seen little of the place there, returning there only as a brief respite betwen drives and the ranch work he did for a cattle-baron in Fort Worth. It was much smaller, but heavily mortgaged, as were all the other properties in town, to a financier who operated out of Dallas but lived in New York City.
It was a new town, built largely on the basis of easy railroad access. Like so many other towns in Texas it had sprung up like a patch of weeds in the empire-building days that followed the Civil War. Very little happened there economically, save for a few cottage industries and annual farmer's markets, plus the obligatory alley of saloorns, but when last "BOB' had left there had been a nice, new white church being built and everywhere there were rumours of some new industrial venture guaranteed to make Morganville instantly prosperous.
"BOB" had given much thought to these rumours on the last drive; he enjoyed the freedom of the bedroll under an open sky and the eternal journey to Parts Unknown, but some part of him had a lingering hope of settling down and discovering True love. This was odd, for other than Mother Dobbs, "BOB" had never met a woman he genuinely like and admired. Oh, certainly there had been the occasinonal dance-hall girl who somehow transformed him into a primitive and gladly savage ignoramus for a night, but he had never met a woman he would have cared to take home to meet his mother. For that matter, he'd never met a woman whose charms inclined him to tell her where he lived.
Soon it was noon and "BOB" dismounted to let his horse graze. he rummaged through his pouch and found a Spanish pear, gone soft and overripe, but still edible; he had been given it by a peasant worker in mexico who had taken pity on the stranger with no language.
"BOB' sat down in the grass and took a bite out of the pear. It was delicious! Juice trickled down his chin and onto his vest and he turned his head this way and that, the better to taste the fruit. it had a delectable scent to it as well, almost like cinnamon. When he finished he tossed the core aside and pondered for a while, lighting his pipe to assist him in his daydreaming. It occurred to him that his mother might be able to make a truly delicious treat out of Spanish pears and cinnamon, with perhaps a touch of butter and a white wine. (Like all cowboys, "BOB" had vivid fantasies about food whenever he had been on the trail for a while!) he resoved to pick up some of those ingredients at the market in town before he went home.
"BOB" refilled his pipe and stretched out on his belly, resting his chin in the palm of his hand and staring into the distance. There, just beyond a slight rise, lay Morganville. He could almost make out the dim outline of the city if he stared very carefully. It was so faint and far away it could have been a mirage, but the distant smoke of a locomotive gave it away for what it was. Suddenly, inexplicably, he felt a chill, as of some dire premonition of doom, somehow associated with Morganville and his own destiny.
"BOB" shook the chill off and grinned at his own peculiarity. Premonitions, indeed! He waited a little while longer, just to prove he wouldn't be intimidated by intuitions from the spirit world or anywhere else, then remounted his horse and made for Morganville.
* * *
Shortly after five o'clock "BOB" rode into town. The ominous feeling had returned when he first saw Morganville, settling onto his shoulders like a leaden weight and appressing him horribly. Though he'd been able to see the town clearly for over an hour, not a chimney billowed smoke, nor was there a sound to be heard, although ordinarily one could hear the sounds of a city from several miles away. And now that he was here inside the city, there was not a soul around.
As he rode past the empty shops ad deserted streets, "BOB' tried to remember if it was Sunday. he'd long since lost track, but that everyone was at hurch seemed the only sensible explanation. But even that hypothesis was a weak one, for he'd already passed the little pentecostal church on the outskirts of town, and it had plainly gone unused for a month or more: the lawn was strewn with garbage and the bell had actually fallen - or been flung? - from the tower through the roof. The wind whistled through a broken window and the door stood wide open, revealing a toppled altar and a row of pews that had fallen like dominoes.
Uneasily "BOB" made his was through the town slowly, studying each home and business for signs of life. There was no-one to be seen or heard, although he called out the names of the few people he knew when he passed their residences and workplaces. There were many broken windows and more than half the doors had been torn from their hinges. "BOB" began to wonder what sort of catastrophe had occurred here and quit worrying about the rest of the occupants of Morganville in favor of cutting direct path to his mother's house.
He turned off the main street onto Slack Lane, but not before he noticed the big white church at the end of the street, now fully constructed and looking brand new. It sat there, imperious and undisturbed, as if it had watched the town's downfall and found itself immensely pleased with the turn of events. A brand new iron bellhung in the steeple, shining dully in the evening sun. "BOB" noted that although a large sign hung above the double doors proclaiming the place to be the First National Church of Morganville, there were no immediately recognizable marks of any particular denomination anywhere upon or near the church.
His mind was whirling, but he had no time to consider the ramifications of that discovery, nor to formulate any hypotheses based on such a simple, disconnected clue: his concern was for his mother, and he suddenly found himself hoping against hope and reason that he would find her at home and in good health. Maybe even with an explanantion: "I kicked 'em all out, "BOB"!" Surely she wouldn't leave without saying good-bye, or at least leaving word for him, no matter what sort of calamity had occurred.
"BOB" suddenly realized that it was just this sort of anxiety that led people to pray. Even thinking of this through a haze of confusion and fear he suspected that this was the wrong approach, that prayer ought to be engaged in not at the moment of greatest need, when one's wits were required, but at all moments preceding and following that moment; that it wasn't something one did thrice a day for a regulated amount of time and/or whenever one found oneself in an inextricable jam, not an act performed thrice a day like eatng, but something that ought to be as ubiquitous in one's life as breathing.
With such thoughts crashing nonsensically against one another in the jumbled chaos of his mind, "BOB" approached the house, nearly at a gallop. When he saw it his face fell instantly and he almost dropped his pipe.
A fire had ravaged the place. The roof was gutted and the white-washed walls were charred black and stained with soot. All the windows were smashed and the little postcard-lawn was littered with broken glass and other debris.
"Ma!" "BOB" cried, leaping from his horse and running through the gate of the picket fence he had whitewashed only months before, the fence which now lay in a tangle, broken ruin along the edges of the yard. He ran to the porch and leapt atop it, for the steps were but a battered mass of splinteres. A gaping hole ran the length of the porch, and the support columns leaned precariously outward, as if some giant had attempted to drag the house away, only to find the job too much for him.
"BOB" stopped in the doorway, his heart pounding and his fists clenched, all but gnawing the stem of his pipe off with his teeth, and he turned his head right and left, trying to see in the dim velvety light flickering through the roofbeams. The pretty, rose-speckled wallpaper hung in tatters, slashed and torn; his mother's portrait, long a fixture on the mantelpiece, lay face down before the fireplace; his own portrait was nowhere in sight. All of the furnishings had been smashed or toppled, including the antique wooden rocking chair that Jane's paternal grandfather had made for his wife over seventy years ago, and, according to Jane, where "BOB" himself had been conceived.
The air was fresh, but it tore through "BOB" 's eaving lungs like a thousand tiny kneves. he ran across the room to his mother's bedroom. When he saw how it had been ransacked his stomach threatened to revolt, his knees all but giving way. He leaned against the door-jamb and let out a high, soft moan. Then, galvanized, he leapt into the room and tore it apart, heaving the bed to one side, tearing open the closet door and pawing through the tangled mass of clothing on the floor, desperately looking for any sign of is mother's presence.
When he'd completed the search, he ran from room to room and repeated it, calling for his mother in his loudest voice. An hour had passed when at last he found himself on the porch, weeping and retching with his head between his knees and his fingernails digging furrows in the palms of his hands. He had found nothing, but that wasn't the worst of it: the worst of it was that in spite of his grief, he couldn't stop grinning.
* * *
Twilight came quickly, but "BOB" would have no rest. He rummaged through the supply store down the street until at last he found a kerosene lamp that hadn't been broken, and some oil to put in it. The wick was poor, but it would serve his purposes.
The supply store was another riddle. On the counter a bold of cloth and some needles and thread lay in a neat row. A gold coin lay atop the bolt of cloth. Behind the counter till was opened and full of cash. The price of the sale stoof out on the register's display: $2.35.
When he noticed this, "BOB" had a thought. He lit the lamp and returned to his mother's home. After another hour of careful searching he found all of his mother's jewelry. It had been scattered, but it was all there. He also found that the portrait of his mother was undamaged, although the frame was a waste. He gathered these things and put them in a box which he carefully stowed in his saddlebag.
His next stop was the new church at the end of the main street, Morgan Road. As he had suspected, it was undamaged both inside and out. It was, furthermore, spotlessly clean: the few other undamaged buildings he had entered had been dusty and even mildewy, if essentially neat. Here, plainly, was aclue, if only it were connected to the other terrible, senseless events that had taken place in Morganville.
What was so strange about a neat, clean, undamaged church? Under the circumstances it ought to have been a relief to find one place that seemed to be lived-in. But somehow it stank, in a strictly metaphorical sense, of fish. "BOB" searched the place high and low, but found nothing of any interest, save for a peculiar machine that seemed to be connected to the bell. Hadn't he heard it ringing while he wept on the porch? That time was dim in his mind, but he now felt sure that had heard the low, mournful bell tolling in the distance. Was that the purpose of the machine? And why was it still working?
Questions were piling up in "BOB" 's mind, but no answers were immediately forthcoming. Still puzzling over these riddles, he left through the side door, smoking his pipe intensely and wearing a gob-stopping grin. Lost in thought, he almost fell over a body.
Or at least he thought it was a body. When his toe struck the man's side, the fellow sat up and let out a cry. Turning to see "BOB" 's astonished face the little man yelled, "Hey, gringo! Watch out where you are going, alright?" With that he lay back down.
"BOB" stared at him in shock, unable to think of anything to say. When the little fellow realized "BOB" was still standing there he sat back up. "Hey, what's the matter, Senor? You lost, or somtheen?"
Suddenly "BOB" could speak again. He grabbed the little mustachio'd Mexican by the collar and yanked him to his feet . "What happened here?" he cried, swinging his arm to indicate the town.
The Mexican was strangely unperturbed, as if he expected such behavior from gringoes. "They all get on the train, Senor. They all gone away. That was long ago, ciertamente! Where you been?"
"BOB" released the man, who set about straightening his vest. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a package of cigarettes. "Cigarette, Senor?" he queried with unexpected gentility, proferring the package to "BOB" before taking one for himself.
"No, thank you," "BOB" replied automatically. "I've got my pipe."
The Mexican shrugged and put the cigarette in his mouth. He replaced the pack and brought out a match. He struck it against his thumb and lit the skinny, fragrant cigarette. He shook out the match and tossed it aside, it's purpose served.
He gestured toward the church with his hand. "Eet was very nice of the Spaniards to bring buildings like thees one to America, was it not? Een the old days the people worshipped gods who were using the world as I have done with my match, to light their beeg godly cigarettes." He shrugged. "Perhaps the church protects us from them, maybe; maybe not." "BOB" just looked at him.
That said he extended his hand. "My name is Huarez Gonzales Huan Nunoz, Senor. Ees there somtheen I can do to help you? Please pardon me for sayeen so, but you seem to be a bit confused."
"BOB" put out his hand and gave the man his name. "Just call me "BOB".
"Tell me, Senor Nunoz: Why are you here when all the others have gone?"
"A ha ha ha ha!" Nunoz laughed. "That ees a funny joke, Senor "BOB"! You must have quite a sense of humour! A ha ha ha! I work here, of course! A ha ha ha ha ha ha!"
"BOB" studied the odd little man's face. Obviously he was being serious, not playing a oke of his own. Clearly he was a suspicious character, but "BOB' couldn't escape the feeling that he knew this man from somewhere. Finally he asked, "Do I know you?"
The Mexican shrugged. "It seems that we have only just met, Senor "BOB", when you interrupted my ciesta," he replied, at last releasing "BOB" 's hand, "but perhaps we have met before. If so, I could not tell you when or under what circumstances. Tell me: have you ever been to Yucatan?"
"Never mind," "BOB" said. "It's not important. Please, if you could tell me where everyone has gone...there is someone I would very much like to find."
Nunoz leaned forward conspiratorially, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. They almost seemed to be red in the eerie twilight. "You really should go to the Yucatan, Senor "BOB". There ees much there of great interest and of grave importance to a man like you!"
"Is that where they've gone?" "BOB" asked eagerly. "You-cat-tan? Is that in Mexico?"
"Yucatan, Senor "BOB"; eet ees called Yucatan. You would learn a lot there, if you were to go there."
"Is that where everybody went?" "BOB" persisted.
"A ha ha ha ha ha ha! No, they are not gone to the Yucatan, Senor "BOB"! They have all gone North. They are een Chicago. But that ees not where you want to go, I assure you!"
"The hell it isn't!" "BOB" cried. "That's where I'm going, and I mean now!"
"You must suit yourself, Senor "BOB'," the Mexican said, shrugging imperceptibly in the gloom. "But remember what I said. You may regret your choice at a later date. That would be wise, Senor "BOB", very wise! There ees much to discover in Chicago, but Yucatan ees a goldmine. Or perhaps," he giggled, "eet ees the other way around?" With that he turned away and stepped into the darkness bhind the church. "Adios, Senor "BOB'," he whispered over his shoulder, "Adios!"
"Wait!" "BOB' called. But the little man was gone, like a ghost. In the distance "BOB" heard a terrible, primeval screech and the flapping of huge leathern wings. A cloud - or was it a misshapen shadow? - passed over the moon, and the night was still, except for the eternal hum of the crickets.
Note: Original typo read, "...his face hell instantly and he almost dropped his pope."
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