Dusty Books, Frontier LibrarianR.T. Carr, Editor Part 3. A hasty commentary... with apologies and explanation.(Editor's Note Re: the next part. This is not written at the leisurely pace obvious in the first two parts. He is under strain and almost streaming his consciousness. I have not edited any of the misspellings, preferring to leave it in the haste it was created to give it the feeling of urgency that I see in the actual handwriting. RTC) Chapter 151875... My adventure and the creation of a Dime novel... Time limits and an advance apology... What seems a tall tale is Gospel Truth... the Novel arrives... A special present... A friend passes away... his funeral... An unexpected windfall... Boyd Murphy Attorney at Law... A letter delivered proving to be the start of an outlandish situation... The last two parts were prepared at my leisure over the previous 3 years. The last part addressed was not quite 16 years ago. I have aged considerably and time has slipped by and I find myself in another spring, 1875. The War is of course over, Nevada is, of course, a state, and most of the miners are gone, at least those independent souls that came out for Gold. They have gone on to other strikes in Alaska, Montana, and points off our United States map. My library is now city owned and I am in a wonderful building finished just after the War, and the library, with my books in it, is still operated by yours truly. I no longer rent out books, but receive a small sum adequate to my needs as a yearly stipend. I found after the great voyage and all the grist for my mill in the stories that grew out of my travels, that I simply wanted to stay here. And stay here I have, perfectly content. My young friend Burdick has come back through to see me about a 3 years ago. He is now creating Dime Novels, which in our time are cheaply produced sensationalist literature covering all sorts of heroic subjects. I was flattered to find that he wanted to catalogue my exploits. I sat up with him for several nights getting more and more outlandish, fueled by the alcohol and company, and we created the ripping tale of Dusty Books Frontier Librarian. I wondered if they would ever publish it? My motivation in writing this memoir is to counteract with a measure of truth what lies I have propagated in the name of a good story. I had not seen a copy of this tome, nor would I recognize myself I am supposing on the heroic cover that graces all the other issues I have seen. I can imagine immortalized the hand to hand battle with Jack Dayton, and I bet I'll look at least 50 pounds lighter than I ever was and of course many more times as heroic. (Editor's Note: There is no Dime Novel with any similar subject extant in the rather extensive collections available on line in the National Database or in the Library of Congress. If there is one a private collection I will secure a grant and purchase it for the Nevada State Historical Society Archives. Dusty is immortal purely because he admitted what was the truth and what was fabrication. Read on Brave Soul! RTC) I have had a few surprises recently, some of which I would rather have not experienced. I only have about 6 hours to finish whatever I'm going to say to you, Dear Reader, and I apologize for the haste with which the rest of this is prepared. I am in a secluded cabin outside of town, an inherited cabin. I have a tin box that I am going to solder when I am through, and hide it in the walls. I hope to come back to my memoir at some future time, when and if that is in the cards. I don't know where to start, and feel very disorganized, so if this is fragmented and I change subjects abruptly, just put it down to the tension of the moment. I have had a mystery to solve, which at least I have a theory that makes a bit of sense. And all this because of the unexpected windfall, which in part gave me this cabin. In short succession I have had an encounter from an unexpected source that rivals most of my yarns, and is actual fact. Life imitating art or the reverse? Then there is what I can only describe as 'the crime', and all that goes with it. And somehow it all is related and interconnected by a most intriguing tale, which starts back in my peaceful and tranquil existence in my little unassuming and now almost antique library. My 1875 story involves my old friend Dennison, who has hung on in his daily occupation, reading yesterday's news and classifieds. All he does is read now, he is too old to do much else, but he is a good audience when I get going, an attentive listener, and I feel I can trust him to hold the fort down, when I have to go out back for a short visit to the necessary. We celebrate holidays together and have become great friends. I am I afraid he knew more about me than I him, because of our particular natures. Dennison, the good listener, is how I remember him now. I received a small bundle from the east from Master Burdick a few months back, and all speculation ended about the Adventures of Dusty Books Frontier Librarian. I could not recognize myself from the cover. I was a combination of Buffalo Bill and Wild Beast, holding a rather oversize Folio Editon of the Great Bard, all while throttling a much bigger and more foreboding Jack Dayton. Burdick's illustrator had captured the wild look in the eye perfectly. So in some small way I am now immortal, at least as long as these silly books survive. I presented an autographed copy to Dennison, which he seemed to treasure greatly, dropping his paper for once and eagerly pouring through what for him was a slightly exaggerated version of what I'd been telling him all along. He would laugh once in a while, I was hoping not at my expense, and once or twice he paused to wipe his eyes in genuine emotion, or so I thought at the time. When he had read it from cover to cover I asked him what he thought of it. He said with some humor that the fellow in the story was a great hero, but that he was glad he knew the real me and not him, pointing to the illustration on the cover. I did get a royalty of $11.00, which was pretty good since these dime novels sold for just that. I got a penny each for each copy printed, so they had invested in 1100 copies for the first test run, which I thought would be the end of it. Just a week ago I got a whopping $50.00, so it must have sold pretty well. Maybe folks needed it to start their kindling. Some days he and I were the only folks in the library. The likes of Mark Twain, who preferred saloons because of the aromatic nature of his cigars, but was a frequent habitue nevertheless during his brief stay, are no longer here. Bret Harte is gone as well, he was fond of my map collection for some reason, and most of the colorful characters that are not here in their dotage have either passed on to a higher, or in some cases I'm sure lower, reward, or they left while the getting was good. Meanwhile Virginia City hangs on to the hillside, rooted to the catacomb tunnels below the town, and I was perfectly content to be a fixture of a permanent nature as long as the fates allowed. The fact that my wish was not granted and ultimately I must high tail it out of here is a long story I will try to outline for you. My windfall came from an unexpected source after a sad event indeed. I had gone out back to the privy for a brief visit, been doing a lot of that lately with not too much success, and came back in to find Dennison had passed peacefully. His red wax pencil was on the floor just below his extended and totally limp hand hanging off the side of what he often referred to as one of my 'lethally comfortable chairs', those overstuffed wonders I mentioned I wanted before and finally acquired. He had been using a red wax pencil to mark his now ever dwindling prospects, since I first met him. He had made no marks for several weeks and had commented upon it once. I at first thought him to be asleep, but it was that sleep of death from whose bourn no traveler returns. I moved to pick up his pencil, bending over awkwardly, having no choice with the arthritis, and accidentally bumped his hand with my own. It was cold to the touch. I then noticed he was not breathing. Well to make the best of it, he did not die sloppily and passed away at his favorite occupation with yesterday's paper. I ambled over to the Sheriff's office, and he collected the Doctor, who of course doubles as the Coroner, just to make sure he really was gone. With great solemnity my old compadre was pronounced dead. I put up the costs for the funeral, of which the three of us were the only attendees, aside from the Funeral parlor Operator, who was somewhat taken aback at the economy of my funeral fixin's, and seemed insulted that I didn't want to hire any professional mourners. Not knowing Dennison's religious background, and not wishing to go to any more expense for some bible thumper that never knew him anyway, I read the 23rd psalm at the graveyard, since we had no wake with the body present. We all helped bury him, the hole having been dug already by our erstwhile funeral proprietor. After we finished this solemn task we did have a brief get together in the library, with the appropriate libation to the occasion. From the burial society I bought the plot next to the one I had bought for my friend as my final resting place. I felt I was going to be next, and had a real sense of my mortality, and was quite down and in my cups, not bothering to trim my hair or beard, some days not even bothering to open up. I would answer the door if someone wanted to come in, since I lived in the back quite simply, and close up shop again as soon as they left. I would go to one of the small cafes when I remembered to eat. One morning a knock came out at the front. I was a bit fuzzy, having drunk myself to sleep the night before. It was one of the local lawyers, an Irishman named Murphy. He was one of those fellows with two last names. His first last name was Boyd. Boyd Murphy. I believe if he had had a middle name he would have made something of himself. He could talk the pants off you, tell you to go to hell and make you glad you were going to go there. He read Law in his own office, but sometimes did a little reading for amusement in my establishment. This was not the only professional contact I would ever have with the fellow and was treated most fairly. He gave me an accounting of his expenses, which were all honest as best as I could determine. I thought at first he was there to serve me with a lawsuit. He opened his valise, a carpetbag style affair with a broken leather handle, and I was them sure it was some sort of summons or some such. I was to be happily disappointed. It was a copy of the Solemn Will and Testament of Dennison! In it, it was said in plain English, that he was of sound mind and was leaving all his worldly goods to me! I never expected such largesse, and it cam as a complete shock. I expected my inheritance to be a few crates of small items, but no, it was an estate valued at $20,000.00 in gold and cash and a cabin out in the canyon that had been his home all these years. His little business venture was more wildly successful than almost all the old miners I had ever known. After probate I received about $15,000 and change, and the cabin, on about 4 acres of dusty hill, and it's contents. The things that he kept about him told me a great deal of his life, and his hobbies which included a few books, several sets of silver plate, and various many objects of art both fine and dubious acruired in his 'trades'. This was the home of a person who would trade just about anything, and pack rat it all until he got what item , or how much money, he was looking for. Murphy was looking a little solemn on this occasion. He said he knew the affection we each held for the other, and the obvious high regard Dennison held me. He said he had one more matter before he could depart for the day, and that the land I could occupy immediately, but the proceeds would have to await probate. He said not to worry that he was prepaid for much of his services on a yearly retainer from Dennison, and that his fees would not be exorbitant since he knew both of us. I was skeptical at first of this, but it proved to be the case. He said he had a personal letter in his care for me from Dennison, and that he had to deliver it to me and have me sign for it, all right and proper. j This I did and he did a grand exeunt with a bow and a wave of his hat worthy of any great courtier on the continent, or at least that seemed what he intended it to be. I sat down and opened the envelope, which was sealed with a wax glob and a seal impressed in the wax. I was to find this seal and the wax to go with it in his desk in the cabin. It seemed a bit more formal than I thought the man was, but I was to learn a great deal more about my friend, and the letter was the first step of an intricate, perplexing journey.
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