Ghost Town by Joan Lowery Nixon

museum,” Mike said.
    He caught the flash of disappointment on his father's face. “They present some very interesting relics,” Dr. Nelson said. “For example, there are some of the remnants of the miners' lives—their tools and the equipment they used in their homes.”
    “That kind of stuff doesn't really interest me,” Mike answered.
    Dr. Nelson thought a minute, then suggested,“You might want to talk to one of the rangers who staff the park. They could tell you some interesting stories about the people who once lived in Bodie.”
    Mike's only answer was a shrug.
    He could see his dad struggling to come up with the right thing to say. Finally Dr. Nelson smiled. “I think the best thing for us to do is check into the motel and get some dinner. How about it, Mike?”
    “Sure,” Mike said.
    They found a good diner, and later they watched a movie on the TV in their motel room. Mike forgot all about the bone in his pocket.
    But in the middle of the night he awoke, his feet cramped because something heavy had settled on them.
    In the dim light coming from the crack under the door and the hotel's neon light shining between the drapes, Mike saw a dark figure on the end of his bed. It was sitting on him.
    “Dad? Is that you?” he whispered, but he realized it couldn't be his father. He could hear his dad's soft, rhythmic snoring coming from the other bed.
    Mike's heart began to pound. He tried to sit up, but whoever was on his feet wasn't about to let him move. “Who are you?” Mike whispered.
    The figure leaned closer, grinning at Mike. “Take a good look at me,” he said.
    Greasy strands of hair fell to his shoulders from under a dirty felt hat. The skin on his nose was red and blotchy, his teeth were stained, and his breath stank. “I was known far and wide as the Bad Man from Bodie,” he said. “I was the baddest of the bad. I was the roughest and toughest of them all—and there were plenty of bad ones in Bodie, let me tell you.”
    Mike shivered with fright, but he managed to ask, “What do you want, Bad Man from Bodie? What are you doing here?”
    “You can call me Jack,” the man said, adding smugly, “I was also known as Rough and Tumble Jack.”
    Again Mike tried unsuccessfully to pull his feet out from under Jack. “Why are you here?” he asked.
    Jack slowly held up his left hand, spreading out his fingers. The top third of his index finger was missing, and the second knuckle down was a shattered, bloody mess.
    “One night a dirty, lily-livered coward called me a liar—right there in the saloon in front of everybody. Challenged me, that's what he did, so we went outside in the street to see who was right. Drew our guns at the same time, all fair and square. My shot shattered that feller's arm, and I thought he'd learned his lesson. But danged if he didn't shoot off the end of my finger.”
    Mike gulped. “Ouch,” he said.
    “At the time I didn't know it was gone. Shock, I guess, and there wasn't a moon, so it was too dark outside to see the blood. I went back inside the saloon, ready to brag that I'd put that no-good in his place. Then along he comes with his gun he'd reloaded by holding it between his knees. Shot me right there in the bar and killed me dead.”
    “Dead?” Mike stared in disbelief.
    Jack sighed. “When they put my body in a coffin, nobody noticed that part of my finger was missing. Or if they noticed, they didn't care.” He sighed again and added, “Only a couple of folks came to the funeral. The blacksmith's wife was there. Somewhat unkindly, she said she could rest a lot easier makin' sure I was dead and gone far away from Bodie. At least Mad Molly showed up and shed a few tears. A might tawdry Molly was, but she had a kind heart.”
    The blacksmith's wife had the right idea. Mike, too, wished Jack had gone far away from Bodie.
    Jack suddenly stopped reminiscing and waggled his hand in Mike's face. “You've got my finger, and I want it,” he growled.
    “You can