The Strangling Arm.

 By J.H. Matheson
The San Fracisco Call
December 25, 1895

It is unpleasant to look back and think this horror all over again. When my mind reverts to it my hands mechanically close, and the palms become sticky with a cold moisture.

At the time of this occurrence I was acting in the capacity of United States Revenue Officer, and found myself up in the northern part of Nevada, near the Indian reservation quarters, at a new mining settlement.

 

The saloon was the best-equipped institution in camp, and I was there a great deal during my stay, which was cut short in a most terrifying manner. I noticed from the ay of my arrival that a young Piute Indian frequented the saloon and played poker with the white men a great deal. Generally he was

successful and played his hands with intelligence. He always came into the room about 6 and remained until he was ahead of the game, leaving abruptly without even nodding a farewell.

One evening during a severe snowstorm, when the saloon was pretty well filled with gamblers and miners, the Piute walked in and began to play. In less than an hour he had cleaned up over $2000, most of it being the savings of a white man who had just come in, from his claim. As the play progressed I saw that bad blood was rising between the two; the white man was particularly cross. Every time he lost his face would scowl up and cursed the Indian roundly in an undertone. His, opponent never changed his expression, and finally it came down to the last stake of nearly $200. The miner drew two cards and the Indian one. Everybody else was out of the game. The Indian called the miner for his last dollar and threw down a full hand three queens and a pair of sevens.

 

Those who stood near saw by the white man's face that he had lost. For the first time during the week I was there the Indian smiled contemptuously across the table.

Quicker than a flash the miner whipped out his knife, and, rising from his seat, fairly shrieked, "Take that, you red devil," and made a lunge at his opponent.

 

He failed to deliver the goods in a vital spot and the blade swept across the cheek of the redskin, drawing a gush of blood that splashed all over the cards.

Instantly the two closed in on each other and reeled out into the snow, struggling and striving to kill. As is the custom in the mountains the other men stood back and let them fight it out. They swayed to and fro, cutting

and slashing each other like maniacs. All of a sudden the Indian fell forward and the crimson blood poured out of his mouth as the death rattle came in his throat. In less than a minute he was dead and soon began to stiffen.

 

 

The white man, with the exception of a few flesh wounds, was unharmed. After the fight was over the crowd went back into the saloon, and the victorious man drank himself into a wild, howling drunk, pouring out the bitterest invectives over the conquered. After each drink he went to the bar and looked at the corpse to assure himself that the last spark had

fled. Toward morning, after the excitement had died down I started for my room in the little hotel half a mile up the gulch.

 

 

 

I had gone perhaps a hundred yards when I heard a wild, mocking burst of laughter but a short distance behind me, and in another moment the miner passed, trailing the bloody arm of the Indian in the snow, having taken it

from the dead man as a trophy of war. He staggered on, while I stood looking at him in horror. A long trail of red marked his course to the room immediately adjoining mine, into which he reeled .cursing and laughing almost in the same breath. The sound of his demoniacal jeers in the morning air were terrible to hear.

 

 

 With great caution I got into my room, not caring to further disturb the man, who was crazed with drink and maddened by the sight of his victim's blood.

 

With little noise I lay down on my couch, but found it impossible to sleep. In the room next I could hear the drunken miner muttering to himself, and as though he were talking to the bloody arm and calling up the incidents of his ghoulish work. Finally the gibberish ceased and presently I heard the fiend snoring in peaceful sleep. While I lay there wondering whether or not retribution would be meted out to the murderer, the snoring suddenly ceased, and the next instant I heard a harsh sound as if some one was choking. Immediately following this came a long, half-smothered yell, a suppressed curse and a gasp that could only come from a man dying from strangulation. In a few seconds came the dull sound as of a falling body, and I could almost picture a form in its last convulsions.

 

I got up, stepped out on the narrow porch, and peered into the room.

There on the floor, his eyes bulging from their sockets and looking upward, lay the white man, with the Indian's gnarled and twisted hand half hidden in his purple throat, the arm bending lovingly around the neck, quivering with fury and smearing its coagulated blood into the dead man's face as the powerful fingers choked their victim to death.  

 

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

Gorham’s Invitation

By S.E. Kiser

She looked down at him with a smile. Looked down at him out of soft, deep, tender eyes.

And she was beautiful. The sweetness of innocence was upon her face, "Are you Mr. Gorham!” she timidly asked. 

"Yes," he replied, turning from the pile of unopened letters upon his desk, "won't you sit down?"

"Thank you," she said, gracefully settling into the chair which the office boy had brought forward, "I was sent to you by Mr. Ainsworth. Mr. Ainsworth of Ainsworth & Summerfield."

"Ainswirth? I don't believe I know him. I've heard of the firm."

"Oh, I got the impression that he was a friend of yours. Judge Binkham also advised me to see you."

"I hope," he said, "it is nothing very serious. Has some administrator been cheating you out of your right?”

"No, it is nothing of that kind. I wish I had rights for an administrator to administrate."

She drew a long, deep sigh and looked down at the rug.

Alexander Gorham began to have a feeling of pity for her. He wondered if one so young and so lovely could possibly want a divorce. It did not seem possible to him that any man could give such a girl cause to want a separation. Yet if she did not seek his services, for the purpose of having her inheritance safeguarded he could think of nothing else but the desire for a divorce that would be likely to cause her to consult a lawyer. He felt that it was too bad, and suddenly be had an inspiration. 

"Why not let the matter rest for a little while?" he suggested. "This is Thanksgiving time. It would be too bad to make a mistake now. Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding that can be cleared up."

She looked at him with some perplexity.

"I don't think there has been any misunderstanding," she said. "It is because it Is Thanksgiving time that I have come to you."

"Very well," he replied, "only let me say that I hope you will take no action hastily now that you may regret later. You say that Judge Binkham sent yon to me?"

"Yes."

"Did he understand the matter fully? Did you explain it to him?"

"Oh, yes, be understood It thoroughly. He was very kind." 

"The Judge to a fine old man. If he advised you to see me, knowing all about the case, I suppose we may as well proceed. Please be good enough to state the facts fully and clearly."

She unbuttoned her neatly fitting coat and drew forth a book that was bound in limp leather.

"I am taking subscriptions," She said, "for an edition of the classic that--"

Alexander Gorham's face hardened and he interrupted her, saying:

"You will please excuse me. I'm very busy today. I have all the classics I want." 

"If you can spare me just a minute," she resolutely went on, "I am sure you will see how meritorious this edition is. We are offering it only to gentlemen who-- "

"I never buy books on subscription."

"Won't you please glance at the illustrations? You see they are all photoengraves reproductions of the work of the most celebrated artists. We do not ask you to pay anything until the books are delivered and if they are not perfectly satisfactory --" 

"I must insist on being excused. Nobody ever coaxed me into buying a set of books that I didn't want, and I don't want these. You're wasting my time and your own."

She drew another long, deep sigh and let her book fall into her lap, while she looked steadily at the lawyer. He was almost middle aged and beginning to be gray. While she gazed at him he ripped open two or three letters and pretended to be busy reading them.

.

"You -- you said this was Thanksgiving time," she ventured in hesitating, half trembling tones.

"What has that got to do with it?" he asked. 

"You don't want to spoil my Thanksgiving, do you?"

"Will it spoil your Thanksgiving If I don't buy a set of books that I have no use for?"

"I am sure you will like them. You can give them to your wife for a Christmas present"

"I have no wife."

"That's too bad. I'm so' sorry. I – I hope it is not a recent bereavement."

"No bereavement at all."

She slipped her book back inside her coat and got up.

“I hope," she said very softly and with a touch of sadness, "that you will have a pleasant Thanksgiving."

He threw down a handful of letters and turned toward her.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Maybe I've been unnecessarily harsh. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." 

"Oh, you haven't I'm used to being ordered out of places." 

"You don't look like a girl who could stand that sort of thing and not feel it"

"One can stand almost anything when one has to."

"Do you have to do this?"

"I shouldn't be doing it if I didn't have to."

"Do you live at home?"

"Yes, but I have to work." 

"What's the trouble? Can't your father support you?"

"My father is dead. There are just my mother and me."

Alexander Gorham turned and gazed for a moment at the letters on his desk. Then he looked up at the girl again.

"Are you going to have a Thanksgiving dinner?" be asked.

"I hope so," she replied. 

"I used to be invited out to Thank giving dinners," he said, "but for some reason people don't ask me any more. I hate to go to a club for my dinner on Thanksgiving. There doesn't seem to be any Thanksgiving about It wish I, could be invited out to dinner on Thanksgiving again. Suppose won't you sit down?"

'I'm afraid I ought to be going. Unless I secure a subscription our Thanksgiving dinner will be pretty poor."

"I'll tell you what I'll do. If you will invite me to have Thanksgiving dinner with you and your mother I'll subscribe." 

“I'm afraid," she said, smiling, "it would be a bad bargain for you. We haven't ordered a turkey."

That's all right. I know where I can get one. Tell me where to send it. Do I get the invitation?"

She started toward the door, and be followed her. She had her band on the knob. They stood, looking at each other.

“Well," he asked, "are you going to make it a real Thanksgiving for me?"

"Here is our address," she said, writing it on a card which she handed to him.

"Now there's one thing more I want. Don't try to get any other subscriptions. Let mine be the last."

Forbes and the Rich Man

A Thanksgiving Story

By HENRY HOWLAND.

‘Twas the day before Thanksgiving, but there was no feeling of thankfulness within Henry Forbes. His look was hopeless, his clothes wore seedy, and it was long since he had been able to satisfy his hunger.

Forbes was beginning to long for vengeance. He was beginning to feel that the blade and the torch were justifiable. He had gone from place to place all day and he had always heard the same reply. But It was not only the experience of a day that rankled in his breast It was the experience of that day repeated over and over.

The fever from which he had but lately recovered had been responsible for the loss of his position. He had worked up to that place through years of steady, patient efforts. Now wherever he applied they gave him to understand that he would have to go back to the bottom and begin all over again. Bitterly he thought of the old adage: There's always room at the top.

He was standing beside a big iron gatepost at the end of a driveway which wound among elms and maples up to a mansion that could be partly seen through the trees. It was too cold to snow. Only an occasional tattered flake was whirled along by the wind.

Occasionally a carriage passed up the drive toward the big house in which the first lights were beginning to flicker in one of these carriages

Forbes caught a glimpse of a man with an armful of flowers. Other carriages passed out. Presently a wagon loaded with folding chairs was driven through the gate and up toward the huge pile that loomed among the leafless trees.

Forbes drew a heavy high and shivered in the cold. He started on, fearing that he might be suspected of vagrancy or something worse if he were found loitering at the gate, but after he had gone half a square he turned and went back and stood beside the tall iron post again.

"I have tolled and been honest," he thought, "and what's my reward? After twenty years they tell me to go back and start all over again. Pretty soon they won't even give me a chance to do that. Then they'll tell me I'm too old, and what'll follow? Oh God, if there is a God, what are we coming to? Here I stand out in the cold, miserable, alone, with the world against me. Up there some one has enough to make a hundred perhaps a thousand such men as I am. happy, People drive past me with no thought of what I am, with no sympathy to offer, and hurry to where he is, surrounded by splendor, whore they may flatter him and add to his Joys because  -- because he has the money that a hundred -- perhaps a thousand -- others should share.

"And which of us has been the better man? Which of us has honestly earned the most? Which hub kept nearest to God's commandments? Perhaps he has his money because he has cheated others, or because luck favored him in some speculation or some one may have loft it to him.

Surely, he cannot honestly have earned so much more than I have. Yet the preachers talk about God's Justice. If God is Just why he is there and why am I compelled to stand out here in the dark and shiver, with no hope for tomorrow?"

Another carriage passed up the drive and Forbes bitterly said to himself:

"Bah! I suppose society is gathering hero this evening for one of its 'functions.' Tomorrow the papers will have lists of the names of the people who were present. The money the  will spend for flowers this evening would be enough to keep many a poor family comfortable that will have to suffer through the winter."

He clinched his hands and swore that he didn’t believe a just God could reign while such conditions existed. He worked himself into such a passion that he forgot the cold, forgot the danger of being arrested for vagrancy, and forgot that he was talking aloud.

Then he saw a woman coming down the walk from the palace among the trees. He started away, but impulsively turned again and met her as she was passing through the gate. He could see in the dim light which remained that she was probably a servant, and he asked:

"Who lives up there?"

"Mr. Talburn I mean the Talburns."

"Oh. And they're having a ball or a reception or something of that kind tonight, are they?"

"No. Mr. Talburn's dead. They're getting ready for the funeral."

Forbes pushed his hands down into his pockets and stood for a moment, looking at the splendid house in which the rich man lay dead. Then, turning toward the woman, he asked:

"When is the funeral to be?"

"Tomorrow," she answered.

"Thanksgiving is a poor day for a funeral, isn't It?"

"Any day is a poor day for a funeral," she said, and went on her way.

Forbes pulled himself together, a moment later, and, starting onward, said: "So it is. Any day is a poor day for a funeral, and any day is a poor day for giving up hope and losing faith in God."

At the street corner ho halted, uncertain which way to go. While he hesitated a man approached him.

"What's the trouble, my friend?" the stranger asked.

"I'm hungry and I'm out of a job,” Forbes replied.

"Can you drive a team of horses?"

"Of course I can."

"I need an extra driver. I'm to furnish carriages for Mr. Talburn's funeral tomorrow. Come along. You're just the man I’m looking for. I can put you to work now and give you a steady Job if you want it."

"I'm alive and I’ve got a Job," thought Forbes as he walked along with his employer, "and tomorrow's Thanksgiving."