Joe Matlock as Seen in the Spirit.

aka, CLARK'S GHOST STORY.

by Frank Wilkeson
(1848-1913)

      In the Medicine Row Range, Oct. 8 — The water had failed in the mountain gulches. My season's work of placer mining was over. Time began to hang heavily. I had tired of walking through the forests looking at the game I had no need to kill. The work of a family of beavers that had greatly interested me was almost completed, and their houses were well above the water of the dam when I bade them good-by for the winter.

      I had walked up to the base of the Snowy Range, hoping to find a herd of elk that I had seen there in the summer, but they had migrated to the bare hills through which the North Platte river flows. Coming down the rugged mountain flanks I met Jim Clark, miner, trapper, and prospector, whom I had known years ago in Idaho, towing a white donkey up the log-encumbered trail that led through the lofty pass of the Snowy Range.

      Jim and I were staunch friends. We had camped together on the Cœur d'Alene Mountains; we had fished in the clear, rapid water of Thompson's River; we had poled a rude raft on Bend d'Oreille Lake. Once, hidden in a recess among the rocks, we had looked out on the Spokane Indians, and debated whether to go into their camp at the fishery for the purpose of buying a fresh salmon, or to stay where we were in safety. Clark had suggested that the chief, Spokane Garry, might be drunk, and he was a trifle disagreeable, not to say malicious, when in his cups; and, in addition to this possibility, there was an unsettled affair concerning a spotted pony between Garry and Clark. Naturally, the latter was disinclined to meet the dusky chieftain when surrounded by five or six hundred braves. As Clark tersely expressed our movements, "We skipped for the Bitter Root Mountains and Fish Creek Pass," as soon as it became sufficiently dark to mask our movements.

      I was glad to meet my old comrade. We sat on a sunny log and talked. He told me that he was going across the range to search for a placer that his comrade, Joe Matlock, had discovered when on his way to California in 1850. They had been driven from the overland route, leading up the Cache la Poudre river, by the Ute Indians. They had crossed the mountains and entered the North Park. While there Matlock had prospected, and found good pay somewhere on the eastern slope of the second range. It was this gulch my friend was going to search for. As he talked, the desire to join him took possession of me, and I said: "Jim, come home with me to-night. To-morrow I will go with you. I want to see that country. I will help you prospect." He readily agreed to this, and we walked slowly home. I noticed that the old-time fire and joy were lacking in my comrade. He was nervous. He started slightly at the sharp noise made as pine trees rubbed against one another. He seemed to be depressed in spirits. Vainly I tried to cheer him. Gayly I talked of the famous times we had had together in northern Idaho and Montana. He smiled almost sadly in reply to some of my light-hearted reminiscences, and said: "Ah, Frank, I am 60 years old. Life is not enjoyable as it once was. The comrades of my youth are mostly dead. Some of them who are still living are among the human wrecks that every stormy mining excitement strands on the flanks of these rugged mountains. They are living in deserted villages and in isolated cabins hidden in lonely gulches. They are patiently waiting for death to lay his kindly hand on them."

      That night Clark sat by my open fire smoking and gazing into the ruddy blaze. As he leaned forward, with one elbow on his knee, he conveyed to me the impression of a man listening for an unexpected sound. Seeing that he was fully occupied with his thoughts, I picked up a book of Irish tales, and was soon deep in a story of the outrageous conduct of a ghost that lived in the great bog of Allen. The story was well told. I closed the book reluctantly. "Jim," I said, "I have been reading a ghost story." Quickly, and with more interest than he had shown since the first flush of our meeting in the early afternoon, he looked at me. Seeing that he was interested, I asked: "Do you believe in ghosts?" My friend looked me squarely in the eyes. He took his pipe from his mouth and held it lightly between his fingers, then answered in low tones, "Yes, I believe in ghosts, or something I suppose." He ceased talking, hesitated an instant, then looked at me intently. He passed his hand over his face lightly, and then said: "Frank I do not know what ails me. I have seen my old California mining comrade, Joe Matlock, who was killed in a snowslide twenty-six years ago, three times during the last thirty months. I have heard his voice several times, and his step frequently. I sometimes think my mind is giving way, or that my age is telling on me. But I have never drank hard; never indulged in any excesses. My health is perfect; my memory is bright; I sleep soundly though lightly. I will tell you what I have seen and heard, and I want you to tell me frankly what you think of my case. I think it is a warning to prepare for the great clean-up."

      He drew his chair around, and, leaning his arms on its back he rested his head on them as though he was weary. In a low, almost sad tone, he related: "Two years ago last June I left Seattle, on Puget Sound, to visit a mining camp I helped to build on the head waters of the Wendtehee River. The trail from Seattle leads through the Snoquallinie River at the point where the trail leads across the narrow stream. I was on the west or south bank. I remember bathing in clear, cold water, after picketing my horse. I spread my blankets, and after my supper went to sleep. When I awoke it was daylight, but the sun was not up. I was lighting a fire, preparatory to cooking my breakfast, when I heard a voice that I instantly recognised to be that of my long dead comrade, calling clearly, but not loudly, 'Jim! oh, Jim!' Greatly agitated, I sprang to my feet and looked confusedly around me. I saw nothing. Again I heard the voice cry, 'Oh, Jim!' I turned and looked across the river. On the other bank a mighty fir tree lay prone on the earth. This tree was about three feet in diameter. Behind it, clad in a red shirt, and with a wide-brimmed hat on his head, stood Joe Matlock. I could see his figure from the waist up. His arms were lying folded on the tree, and he was leaning forward resting on them. He was smiling pleasantly at me. I was not more than twenty-five yards from him. I saw him as plainly as I see you. I noticed that one of the large black buttons on his shirt front was broken. And Frank," he added in a lower tone, "Joe did not look a day older than he did on the morning he was smothered in the snow. His face was as fresh and his hair as black as when he was young. I spoke to him. He did not answer; simply leaned on the log and smiled gravely at me. I sprang into the stream and waded across. As I approached the other bank the figure grew dimmer and dimmer, and when I came close to the tree it was gone. It did not disappear suddenly but gradually faded away. When it was but a faint outline I could see that it was smiling sadly, it seemed to me. I searched thoroughly, but could find no foot track. The long, soft moss growing on the tree where it had rested its arms was unbroken. I recrossed the stream, ate my breakfast, and rode on my journey."

      Clark was silent for a few minutes, and then resumed in a musing, puzzled tone: "I have heard Joe's voice several times since I first saw him. His footsteps I hear frequently. I have never, excepting one time, heard either the footsteps or the voice when I am on the plains or in the unclad foothills. Joe loved the mountains when he was alive, and now his spirit apparently refuses to dwell elsewhere. This morning I heard him walk up to my camp fire and seat himself by my side. Until I met you to-day the stealthy footsteps had followed me steadily. I have noticed that the weather affects these manifestations sharply. During damp, stormy weather I never hear the footsteps or the voice. During bright weather I always expect to hear the footfalls, and on those rare days when the air seems to be alive and the aged feel young and active, I expect to hear the voice and maybe see the phantom." Interrupting my friend, I asked, "Does not this unseen presence annoy you?" "At first it troubled me greatly, but now I take a pleasure in its company. I actually miss it if it is long absent," he replied.

      Clark re-lit his cold pipe, and smoked silently for a few minutes. I was about to speak. Seeing my intention he raised his hand, shook it negatively, and said: "Please don't; wait until I have finished." Then, without any preparatory words, he related: "Last April, while walking through the forest on a path beaten into the deep snow, I distinctly heard a voice that I did not recognise calling loudly and clearly, 'Jim! Jim! Jim!' I halted and listened. The sighing of the pines, the groaning and sharp protests made as living trees rubbed against one another, the roar of distant waterfalls swelling with snow water, were all I heard. I was sure I heard the voice, and was about to retrace my steps to learn who called me, when, far off to my right, on the side of a steep hill, I again heard the voice calling, 'Hold on!' I thought I heard the swish of Norwegian snow shoes as they slid over the snow. I thought I heard? I did hear the swish cutting sharply and distinctly through the forest sounds. I said to myself, 'It is Jack. He has concluded to join me.' I had asked an acquaintance to go with I me on a hunting expedition. He had refused. I supposed he was now coming over the hill on snow shoes. I shouldered my rifle and walked briskly along the trail. The path led in and out among thickets of young pines and spruces, following the level as nearly as possible. Occasionally a turn in the path led to the foot of the mountain, around which the trail led to the placer mine village, and I could see through the comparatively open timber far up the steep mountain sides. When I thought I was far enough along the trail to be where my companion trying to intercept me should strike the path, I dropped the butt of my rifle on the frozen snow and leaned against a tree. I took my pipe and tobacco from my pocket, and was preparing to smoke, when I again heard, clear and sharp, the swish of the snow shoes swiftly gliding over the snow. Looking up, I saw a man who was mounted on a pair of snow shoes that were painted a dull red. I saw the man plainly. It was Joe Matlock. He was dressed in a suit of fringed buckskin. A black felt hat was on his head. Notwithstanding the velocity with which he was descending the mountain, his long black hair hung straight down his back. His guiding pole, grasped in both hands, was held across his breast. Joe was sliding down the mountain flank at full speed. I saw his body lean to the left. His pole struck the snow sharply. The off edges of the long, red shoes raised slightly. As his course changed I saw that he was heading directly for the crest of a high ledge of rocks. Coming to the crest he crouched low on his shoes, and then, with [a] mighty spring, jumped high in the air. He alighted far below in an alder thicket. I plainly heard the swish of the snow shoes as they swiftly slid over the frozen snow far down the mountain, but I did not hear the crash that should have followed the leap. Hastening along the trail I came to the thicket, and to my surprise, I could not find the slightest trace of the track of a snow shoe.

      "The sun was sinking behind the serrated crest of the Rabbit Ear Range when I arrived at the Platte River. While I was eating my supper, I heard something seat itself at my fire. Instinctively I knew that it was Joe. Before I lay down I dragged a couple of logs to the fire and threw them on. Lying in my blankets I could feel the presence at the fire. I fell asleep to awake with a start about 10 o'clock. Seated on a log, with hands outstretched, as though seeking to warm them, was the figure of Joe dressed as in the morning. He was looking earnestly at me. I spoke to him. He shook his head negatively, turned his face away from me, and continued to warm his hand? Again I slept. In the morning when I awoke he had disappeared. I have not seen him since." Again Clark was silent for an instant. Then, in explanation of his religious belief, he said: "I have been a firm believer in annihilation at death, but I begin to doubt if I am, or was, right in that belief." Then, inquiringly, he added: "What does this phantom, that I have seen three times signify? What does this apparition of a sound that is almost constantly with me mean?"

      I knew James Clark to be an honest, truthful, brave, clear-headed man, and I knew that what he told me he believed to be true. I was unable to offer an explanation of the manifestations, and said so.

FRANK WILKESON