Luke Reynolds' Ghost.

by: Rollin M. Taggett

The San Francisco Call 

December 25, 1895

 

A ghost story! What do I know of ghosts? Perhaps nothing personally; but what about the ghost story told me by M.G.Gillette superintendent of the Savage fifteen or twenty years ago?

Early in the fifties he was engaged in placer mining a few miles from Laporte with a partner, whose name, I believe, was Luke Reynolds.

They occupied a cabin together, with no neighbor nearer than two or three hundred yards. Their claims had yielded well, and for more than a year they had divided from one to three ounces of gold daily. Suddenly Reynolds was called to Ohio by the death of his father, promising to return within three months, and leaving Gillette alone in the cabin.

Something more than a month passed, when, returning from his work a little after sundown one evening, Gillette was amazed at finding his partner standing in the open doorway of the cabin.

"Why, Luke, is this you?" he exclaimed, advancing and holding out his hand. Instead of responding the figure— that of Reynolds and clad in his old mining costume moved silently backward into the cabin and remained motionless behind a table standing near the middle of the room.

There was still enough of daylight left to enable Gillette to distinguish objects quite clearly within and he entered the doorway, stepped slowly to the table and seated himself on a bench, without for a moment taking his eyes from the sad but familiar face intently regarding him from the ether side. He was not greatly frightened, nor did he lose his presence of mind: but a feeling of awe crept over him as he continued to gaze upon a face too silent and motionless to be of flesh and blood, and into eyes too dull and vacant to be other than the eyes to death. Unable longer to bear the strain in silence, he raised to his feet and said:

"Are you Luke Reynolds? Speak!"

For a moment the form swayed from side to side as if in distress; then from between immovable lips, as if thrown upward from the lungs, came these words in hollow and unnatural utterances:

"I am Luke Reynolds, whose body, torn from life in a shattered railway car, was yesterday buried at Defiance, Ohio."

"I cannot doubt it," said Gillette, awe and fear giving way to curiosity; "but give me your hand that I may be convinced."

A shadowy hand was extended over the table. Gillette reached for it and grasped the air.

"I am satisfied, Luke. Now, why are you here?"

It was two or three minutes before an answer came, and then the words were indistinct and

:widely separated. Meanwhile the twilight was fading and the figure had moved further back from the table.

"I cannot understand you. Can you not speak more plainly?" And Gillette moved as if to decrease the distance between them; but he was stopped by the wave of a misty hand, and the voice was heard again.

"Yes; but come no nearer, your touch was disconcerting. As the light fades I am stronger. Listen!"

And Gillette did listen— fearlessly listened, with every sense alert; listened as Hamlet listened to the helmeted shade of his father. He was told of a considerable amount of gold secreted near the cabin, of an interest in a hotel at Forbestown, of a house and lot in Sacramento and other property of less value, all of which he was requested to secure for the benefit of a widowed mother, whose address was given.

During the strange recital questions were freely asked and answered by each, end the length of the interview and its results would seem to preclude the possibility of fraud illusion. Gillette promised to comply with every request.

"Yes, I know you will," were the final words of his ghostly friend. "I shall be with you, and some time in the future will find occasion to show you that I am grateful. Farewell."

A cool breath touched the cheek of Gillette, and when he would have spoken again the apparition had vanished.

And now, to conclude this part of the story, it must be said that Reynolds was killed at the time and in the manner mentioned that the property was found as described by the misty messenger, and in due time inured to the benefit of the mother of the unfortunate miner.

Years passed. Gillette became the superintendent of a noted Comstock mine— the Savage. There was but little ore in sight at the time, and he inaugurated a vigorous search tor more. He started prospecting drifts in many directions, and was constantly in and about them, inspecting, assaying and stimulating haste. He penetrated and I abandoned dangerous winzes, and groped his j way alone through exhausted stopes, where the air was stifling and the rotting timbers were giving way to the irresistible pressure of swelling walls. Like all miners, lie had theories of his own, some of them a them too radical to be imparted to others, and in their furtherance he invited the counsel no one, but quietly pursued .his investigations as opportunity permitted, carefully noting the dip of the footwall in one level, the character of the clay deposit in another, the texture of the I porphyry in a third and so following.

One day, in making his way with a candle and pod-pick into an east drift from one of the levels that bad yielded nothing, he encountered  a zigzag of broken timbers about fifty feet from the entrance. Anxious to see what was beyond, he loosened and partially removed a heavy upright which seemed to be ready to j fall, and stepped past the obstruction. He was about to continue on to the face of the drift when the caudle in his hand was suddenly extinguished. He was puzzled at the circumstance, as he could feel no circulation of air. He was in the act of relighting the candle when it was violently knocked from the hand that held it and lie was gently but firmly forced back through the sets of broken timbers he had passed. The next moment the entire drift behind him caved in with a crash. Bewildered, be groped his way to the station, and, turning, beheld Luke Reynolds standing in the mouth of the drift. Hut he was not clad in the garb of a miner. A gauzy robe of white fell from his shoulders and the calm radiance of the moon shone in his face. He disappeared with the signal for the cage.

Gillette was pale when he reached the surface and said nothing of what had happened to the drift. For the rest of the day there was a sensation of numbness in the hand from which the extinguished candle had been struck, and he rubbed it frequently; but it was not until the next morning that, a fingermark on the back of it had completely faded  from view.

 

I tried to copy this as best I could from the original newspaper.  If you find any mistakes or missing parts please let me know.
Enjoy!
Kateri