Salvation, Arizona

They say that the Devil took the town of Salvation, Arizona, one night in 1882.

I, Jabez Jones, used to live in Salvation. I’d tell ya I’d seen it all with my own eyes, but then I’d be lying. I knew Sebastian though, and worked a while for Otis, afore it all came crashing down.

Built around a railroad bridge and siding in 1879, the town boomed when Barnaby Seams hit the Buckwheat silver and copper lode. Soon prospectors from the Old South and China crowded the town, former slaves rubbing shoulders with Commanches and Dineh attracted to the white man’s way of life.

Wilford Belter set up a bank to buy prospector’s nuggets and sand and found he had a talent for undervaluing finds and a smooth enough tongue to convince the prospectors they were getting good pay for their metal. They say to this day that Belter could smooth talk the devil out of a soul. I doubt it, though--Salvation would still be here if he could.

Otis Rumpole, wealthy from a strike in the Diablo Canyon, set up shop in 1881 buying out all the small-timers until he was the major employer in town, in control of the main lode and of the community, such as it was, that had grown up. He hired himself a US Marshal to keep the peace in the town crowded with card-sharps, saloons, and brothels. The Marshal earned his keep by putting down anyone trying to unionize the miners. (Usually they were killed while “resisting arrest.”)

The nearest circuit court didn’t come closer than a hundred miles into the territory, so The Marshal’s justice went unchallenged. Otis was the king of the hill, and no one crossed him. The Marshal was a cold man, and Otis appreciated that. They broke bread often together. They ruled the roost.

Until a “friend” of Barnaby Seams appeared in 1882. The friend was a tall, handsome man with a long dark coat, a man of taste and culture, out alone in the wilderness. I’ll tell you about Barnaby meeting the Friend--a desperate Barnaby searching in vain for a claim worth developing called on God and then Ol’ Nick to help him in his need. The Friend appeared over the horizon, riding a black horse with steaming breath even in the summer heat. Or so Barnaby told me.

His Friend offered Barnaby a deal--a silver lode in return for something Barnaby doesn’t even believe in--his immortal soul.

“Barnaby Seams, I have just the deal for you. You want wealth here and now--I can help. For the cost of your soul. Something you can’t see or feel.”

“And just how am I to find this here wealth?”

“If you look in Diablo canyon west of the railroad--sign this first--you’ll find your wealth. Look without signing and you’ll just find more dirt.”

Barnaby signed. He squinted but rode his burro back to the bridge, looking for any sight of possible mineral wealth outside the range of the Philadelphia and Pacific railroad’s claim. He found a hole, squinted at it, and dug in--and found some silver. He hastily lay claim and shook on the deal with his new Friend.

Now one day the Friend smoked a cigar as he strode into town like he owned the place, and walked into the Last Gasp Saloon where Otis and The Marshal held court outside the mining offices. The Marshal stood up, looking for a fight, but looked into the Friend’s eyes and backed down for once.

Otis spat out his cigar in disgust. “Call yourself a lawman?” He walked over to confront the Friend, who smiled a tightlipped smile. I saw it all.

“I’m here to collect a debt. I might have to collect on a whole mess of debts.” The Friend took out his right hand and slapped Otis on the shoulder. “Tell me something, Otis--you a betting man?”

Otis replied as he was as ready as the next man to play whist but he had no time for dice or poker. The Friend asked Otis instead to find someone of virtue in the town. Just one person, who was truly innocent, by sundown June sixth. Winner takes the whole town. One person without sin.

You may reckon they had a minister or a priest in that there town, but you’d be wrong. Otis searched, yes he did, throughout the town for a person with no larceny, with no sin, tarnishing their soul. He sweated it, he did, knowing in his heart of hearts that he himself was guilty of greed and lust, and The Marshal guilty of wrath.

Otis tried his luck with Wilford, who, hearing about the wager, sold off his bank’s assets and took to the road. (I told you they were exaggerating Wilber’s golden tongue.) The few God-fearing folk in town took Otis seriously--and left. The rest, not believing in the Almighty nor in the Adversary, opted to keep mining and fornicating, drinking and whooping it up.

Come June sixth of 1882 and only the hardcore sinners were left. Not an honest man--nor woman--remained in that there town. The very clouds hid the sun that day, as though God himself refused to witness the event. The Friend reappeared on the bridge, riding slowly, leisurely even, to his meeting with Old Otis. I say they met in Otis’s mining office, and that Otis pled for mercy and his soul. But Ol’ Scratch opted to take the town, and when Otis got up to look over the streets they were all empty, save for the tumbleweeds a-blown south from Colorado and west from New Mexico.

No one lives there now. It’s a ghost town. But sometimes you can hear Otis a-looking for a person without sin. Usually at night--Otis wasn’t a morning person. You can see his lantern as he wanders from building to building, a-haunting the bridge and the dusty ruins left behind. I should know--I’ve seen his ghost myself.

***

Francis Wiget is an MFA student at Western Colorado University in Creative Writing. He holds a BA in History from Earlham College. He has been published in The Paradise Review and in The Travelers literary magazines. His most recent job was on the help desk for robot taxis, helping the cars get out of trouble. He lives with his wife, son, a dog, and entirely too many cats.