Wait For Me: A Granite Ghost Story

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Rick McGill, who wrote a column about his time as an officer with the Laurel Police Department for Voices of Laurel for five years, has released his first novel, Wait For Me: A Granite Ghost Story. The novel is set in the 1890s silver-mining town of Granite, above present-day Philipsburg, Montana. The Laurel History Boys are proud to present this excerpt. The book is available on Amazon.

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Prologue

In a small tourist town of eight hundred residents in western Montana, Steve and his fourteen-year-old daughter, Janie, wandered off the main town thoroughfare and admired the historic buildings on both sides of the street enjoying the summer sunshine. They’d come to explore the American West, and the wide-open Montana spaces and scenery were working their magic.

They chose Philipsburg when Janie wanted to see what the “real” Montana was like, not the one depicted in movies.

They stopped in front of the Opera House Theater, built in 1891, and Steve consulted his local map of interesting sights.

“The oldest continually operating theater in Montana,” Steve said. “Nice old place, huh?”

“Look, Dad. There’s a man watching us. Up there in that window.”

In a second-floor window, they could see a man seated just inside the glass. At first, he was indeed watching them, but only briefly. Then his focus turned more up the street as if he was expecting to see something or someone coming down the road. It was hard to make out details, but he was on the senior side of life. His face looked like it held many stories—of hard times and hard work, as well as good times—all competing for expression.

“He looks like an Old West character,” Steve noticed the awning over the front door. “That’s the local museum, should we check it… Whoa.”

The gentleman in the second-floor window suddenly vanished. He didn’t get up and leave. He didn’t close the shade. He didn’t move at all, in fact. He just faded quickly from sight, as if he was never there.

“Did you see that? He just, like, disappeared,” Janie said.  She was used to all kinds of high-tech tricks, but even she was impressed.

He chuckled. “That was some pretty neat special effects. Probably draws lots of visitors.”

They waited for a rickety farm truck to go by, bits of hay trailing in its wake, one more example of the “real” Montana Janie was looking for. Then they crossed the street to the museum and walked into the museum gift shop. An older gentleman with wavy silver hair and a white bushy mustache sat on a stool behind the counter, reading a book. He wore an ivory-colored shirt with a stiff, old-fashioned paperboard button collar, common in the 1800s, and a dark silk vest that hung loosely on his bony frame. An old ledger was open on the glass counter, no doubt part of the museum’s collection of old records and manuscripts.

He pushed his glasses back up his nose, and when he smiled, the lines in his face changed places. “Welcome to our museum, folks.”

“Hi,” said Janie.

Her father decided to ask about the disappearing effect they had seen in the mannequin upstairs.

“How do you make that mannequin disappear upstairs?” Steve asked. “That’s pretty cool.”

The old man was gently closing the old ledger book, but stopped and raised an eyebrow, and cocked his head to one side.  “Mannequin? Oh… Oh!” He let the ledger close with a soft thump. “You saw something? Really?”

“Yeah. Pretty authentic. Do you have it rigged like that to draw people in, or what?”

“You really saw him? No one sent you over to get me all stirred up?” The old man took on a suspicious tone. “Last year, Charlene at the candy store told a gal to come over and—”

Janie giggled.

“Nope. No one told us anything,” Steve said. “We were waiting to cross the street just now, and that guy you have in the window did what he was supposed to do, so here we are.”

The old man smiled half to himself, then leaned forward and looked at Janie.

“You saw him, too?”

Janie nodded.

“Well, first, I’m sorry for sounding suspicious. You’re both nice folks, and we’re glad you’re here visiting our town.”

The man tugged his vest down straight. “And now, second, I also have to say that was no mannequin you saw upstairs. To tell the truth, I’m a little jealous, because I’ve never actually seen him myself.”

Janie and Steve looked at each other in puzzlement. The man seemed sane enough—and, of course, he was in charge of the museum, so he must be responsible or they wouldn’t have left him on his own.

The man cleared his throat and stood up. Reaching across the glass case, he introduced himself.

“Name’s Ralph. As you can see, I run the gift shop here at our museum. Nowadays they call us ‘docents’.” He leaned toward Janie, wrinkled his nose. “Kind of a frou-frou title if you ask me.”

Steve shook Ralph’s hand in return, “Steve. And this is Janie. It’s her summer trip, and she picked Montana. We’re out here from Baltimore. We love your town—a really cool, old-timey place.”

Janie shook the man’s hand, too.

“So, who is that guy?” she asked uneasily. “Do you mean he’s a ghost?” She was unsure what to make of Ralph and what he was implying.

Ralph slid the old ledger off the counter onto a shelf.  “Ah. Who is he indeed? Now that requires a full and thorough answer and cannot be rushed through. I hope you folks have some time to kill?”

Steve saw Janie’s head bobbing in agreement and knew the afternoon was wide open—and apparently now decided.

Ralph could see that Janie was calling the shots. “Well, in that case,” Ralph said, “the story also requires a nice cup of tea and a comfortable chair to go with it. Why don’t you both take a wander through the museum, and I’ll put a pot on the cooker? Take your time while I gather my thoughts and set up a place here on the table.”

He motioned toward a long reading table and chairs in the center of the shop and turned to collect a few implements of hospitality from behind the counter.

Janie and Steve headed off to the displays while the tinkle of cups and saucers on a serving tray told of Ralph’s preparations.

Once they were out of earshot, Steve said softly, “He seems harmless.”

Janie smiled but wasn’t quite sure what to think of the implications of an actual ghost upstairs. The natural inquisitiveness of her younger years had recently developed a skeptical armor. She was ready to hear the tale but expected a logical outcome.

Steve found the museum very interesting indeed. It told of the early days of the town, which had its roots in the mining boom of the late 1800s.

After exploring the museum exhibits, they returned and found Ralph in the gift shop. He set a beautiful silver serving tray containing cups, saucers, and a steaming pot of tea on the reading table in the center of the room.

“So…” Ralph beamed. “How do you like our oldies-but-goodies?”

Referring to the 19th-century kitchen exhibit, Janie said, “I can’t even tell what some of those kitchen things do.”

They all had a laugh.

Ralph busied himself with serving a proper tea, distributing the china, spoons, and napkins, and pouring just the right amount of tea in each cup. As he set the pot back on the tray, Janie couldn’t wait for the story to begin.

“So, tell us about that guy,” Janie said. “I can hardly wait.”

“Ah, but the waiting’s the thing, young Jane.” His use of her formal name got her attention, and the tone of his voice seemed to change, almost gaining a mannerism of some other place and time. He settled back.

“You see, towns come and go. Even this one will hang on someone’s wall someday in faded, dusty old photographs. It’s our job to remember and to pass on to others what’s gone before.”

He sipped some tea and smiled, a twinkle in one squinting eye, and began his tale.

“I hope you inspected carefully the photos of the town of Granite throughout our museum,” Ralph said, “for it is Granite that we have to thank for most of the early success of this town and the surrounding area. The town had over three thousand people at the height of its population. All kinds of people: Italians, Chinese, Welshmen, Germans, Irishmen, Finns, you name it. You wouldn’t know by visiting the crumbling ruins up the mountain now, but it was a busy place. Saloons, hotels, churches, stores, even a hospital. Just about everything a big town needs.

“But it all depended on the mine. It was a big silver mine—biggest in the world at that time. They crushed the ore up there, smelted it into big ingots, and shipped it out by train here in Philipsburg. Millions of dollars came out of that ground. But when the price of silver crashed in 1893, well, everyone just left. The town of Granite turned into a ghost town almost overnight, they say.”

“So, what about the guy?” Janie asked. “What was his name?”

A half smile crept across Ralph’s lips as he settled back in his chair, nodding slowly. “Ah. His name…”

Chapter 1

“Name?”

“Jack,” said the newcomer, looking around the busy office of the Granite Mountain Mining Company, hoping for a job. It was a large open space, with work tables at odd angles, desks, and shelves full of ledgers and maps. Two men were huddled over a large set of diagrams on a square table, carefully mapping out new sections of tunnel. Another man fiddled with a coffee pot, spilling some on a big iron stove in the middle of the room—hot, sizzling streams dribbling down the side. A thin haze of cigar smoke hung near the ceiling.

After several weeks on the road—most of it with only himself for company—and now in the midst of so much hustle and bustle of the mine office, Jack failed to notice the heavyset man at the desk with his pen poised above the ledger as he looked over his glasses at Jack expectantly.

“Shall I guess your last name, mister, or just make one up for my book?” asked Tom Kelley, who was not used to being ignored by men begging for work.

Kelley was the manager for the Granite Mountain Mining Company, in whose offices Jack had arrived that morning looking for work. It was his responsibility to keep the company roster full of working men to ensure the flow of silver from the Granite mine continued to roll down the mountain.

The mine ran twenty-four hours a day, and wages were $3 for a good day’s work underground. The Granite Company was a solid place to work, and more often than not, Kelley could find room for anyone who showed up looking for employment.

Anyone, that is, who could pay attention long enough to get signed up.

“Sorry, sir,” said Jack. “It’s Fallon. Jack Fallon. I’ve been on the road for a while, and your place sure seems busy to me.”

He shifted his tweed snap-brim cap from one hand to the other and hoped he hadn’t ruined his chances. All he owned in the world lay in a rolled-up satchel at his feet, and the few coins in his pockets would barely last another week. Jack was from Ireland and started working in coal mines when he was seventeen. He put away enough of his wages to purchase passage to America in 1889 aboard the steamer Abyssinia. He would forever love the Old Sod, but America held the promise of adventures indescribable.

Word had it there were still opportunities to be had in Montana, and a man had only to show up with all his appendages and a decent command of the English language—and at some outfits not even that—to be added to the ledger books.

Since crossing into the state, he was convinced it was indeed a fine country. Montana held real promise. So he paused long enough to sign on for a real job with real income. His young back was as strong as the next man’s, and this company looked like the right place to start.

Kelley looked the young stranger up and down and made a few quick judgments. He had intelligence behind his eyes, and it was clear he took in everything around him with the ease of someone who’s worked in the dirt before. His accent was not long off the boat—a few years, perhaps. And the foreigners Kelley had known had generally not picked up the laziness of some Americans he’d met.

“I’m no stranger to workin’ or minin’,” said Jack. “I’ve heard this is a good outfit, so I hope you can use a hand.”

“Okay, Mr. Jack Fallon. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Kelley took down a few more particulars, such as Jack’s age—twenty-four—and his birthplace, County Kerry, Ireland. Satisfied with his first impression, he filled in the “Date Hired” column in his ledger: May 12, 1893.

“You go with Mr. McFeeney over there,” said Manager Kelley, “an’ he’ll take you to a crew in the middle of their shift. Payday is a week from Friday. You can bunk in one of the company bunkhouses until then, or longer if you’ve a mind. You’ll learn more from your fellows about what’s what around here.”

He raised his voice and spoke over his shoulder, “McFeeney!”

A short, thin man with sideburns, wearing a smudged bowler hat, hurried over from the stove. He looked a little older than Jack, but not by much. His open vest gave the appearance of someone perpetually coming or going on some urgent task.

“Take Mr. Jack Fallon here up to see Jimmy at the yard and get him started muckin’.”

Fallon cleared his throat and shifted his stance. Mucking was the lowest job one could have, usually given to drifters or drunkards of little respect.

“Mr. Kelley, sir, when I said I was a miner, I meant it. No disrespect, sir, but I’ve worked for six years minin’, and muckin’s a bit under my status, if you take my meaning, is all. Again, no disrespect.”

Kelley leaned forward, and his wooden swivel chair groaned under his not-inconsiderable weight. He clasped his hands together on the desk.

“Mr. Fallon,” he said in a low, firm voice, “and no disrespect, either, but I don’t know you, and you’re new in town. And it’s you who’s wantin’ a job now, isn’t that a fact?”

This was no temporary day-by-day job he was trying for. Hard as it was to his pride, Jack decided to take whatever came. He knew he could make his life better with hard work alone, so he just nodded and swallowed.

Kelley smiled. “Well, then, know this: every man on this mine started out muckin’, including me. And McFeeney here. If your crew boss notices you’re a good, hard worker, you’ll be sittin’ in this chair in no time at all.” His smile instantly turned to a frown. “Now get the hell out of my office and earn yer wages.”

Fallon took a step backward and nodded, putting on his cap and hefting his bag. He followed McFeeney out the door, and they started walking up the slope toward the mine yard.

“Don’t worry about Kelley, mister,” said McFeeney. “We get fellows up here who can’t cut it, and sometimes it’s a waste of time to string ‘em along until they get tired of workin’ and quit.”

“Well, he’s right: he doesn’t know me. But I’m not a quitter. I might just end up in that chair one of these days.” Jack grinned and shifted his pack from one shoulder to the other as they walked uphill. Jack’s impression of the town was that everything seemed to be either uphill or downhill from everything else.

According to McFeeney, who was quite the guide, the mining company owned the hospital, the bank, the mercantile, the larger businesses, and most of the lots on which homes were built. The local jail was tucked away in the same depression, though McFeeney explained that there was no local sheriff, and the simple one-room lockup was more for drunkards than ruffians and criminals.

As they climbed the road that led to the hoist house above the stamp mills, Jack had a better view of the working side of the town. The hoist house they were headed to was on a wide shelf above the mills.

A tall man in a bowler hat stood in front of the building, chewing the stub of a cigar. He turned toward them as Jack and McFeeney approached. His coat was open, and bright red suspenders framed his bulging belly. Jack was learning all he could about his surroundings and the new job. This would be his first chance to make any kind of impression on the people he would be working with. “Mr. Brownlow, this is Mr. Jack Fallon,” McFeeney said. “Mr. Kelley says to put him on your gang as a mucker.”

“Well, I’d be struck dead if Kelley said to start anyone other than muckin’,” said Brownlow.

He looked Jack up and down, touched the brim of his hat, and nodded, dismissing McFeeney. “Come on, Fallon. Let’s find you a shovel.”