Beyond Cuckoo

A tidbit of historical fiction—

Joe Simpson had followed the telephone lines from Rhyolite to Skidoo. The stopover at Stovepipe Wells had replenished his canteens but he was almost dead when he stumbled into the Gold Seal Saloon.

“It’s a good day for the devil,” he remarked to the bar-keep. “Here’s the last of my money, set me up with some brew, a room with a bath and a woman.”

In 1908 Skidoo, named after the trendy expression 23 Skidoo, had ridden the gold rush to become a sizeable town. It boasted about its bank, newspaper, red-light district, row of saloons, 700 citizens and a direct phone line, across the valley, to the thriving town of Rhyolite. Charles M. Schwab had invested heavily in the area’s mining and stock companies now ran ads to “Follow Schwab to Skidoo.” Joe had shot his way out of a few towns in the area and his reputation followed him to his present location. Soon clean, refreshed and satisfied, he decided to make a visit to the bank.

“Put your hands up. I’m here for the money,” he said as he waved his gun in the teller’s face. The teller didn’t move.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” the teller replied.

“What’s going on here?” Another voice entered the room.

“I want all of your money.”

The voice which belonged to the bank manager, Jim Arnold, was joined by two more and Joe found himself surrounded by three armed men. “Shit,” he snarled as he dropped his gun before landing in the outside street gutter. Pissed as hell about the humiliation of it all, he soon rounded up another gun and went back for more. This time he demanded an apology from Jim and when it wasn’t forthcoming, he shot the man dead.

Now Skidoo didn’t have a jail, and folks being sensitive about murders, jumped Joe, tied him up and ran for the constable.

“Now everyone, calm down,” the constable said as he took possession of the criminal. “I’ll guard this guy until we can transport him to Rhyolite for trial.”

The crowd dispersed, grumbling about their slain friend. Three days later, a smaller version of the group showed up at the constable’s doorstep determined that justice be served. After chaining the constable to his bed, they dragged Joe outside to the nearest telephone pole and hanged him. Skidoo hadn’t seen this much excitement for years. Town folk went door to door, pulling some from their beds to witness the event. The lynchers were congratulated and no one gave it another thought. The next day the Skidoo News headlined, “MURDERER LYNCHED WITH GENERAL APPROVAL”.

Joe was soon buried, but when other California papers sent reporters, he was dug up and re-hung for photographs. The exhumation was also convenient for a Dr. McDonald, employed by the Skidoo Mines Company. Apparently, Joe, due to his love of red-light districts, had been harboring a severe case of syphilis, and the company wanted to know the effects the disease had on the human brain. Joe was re-buried without his head allowing the doctor to do his autopsy. Afterwards, the doc boiled the skull, set it out on an anthill for a few days, then when clean used it as a paperweight in his office. Joe Simpson lives on in the (now defunct) town’s history. His head, however, lives on as part of a private collection—an artifact from when Skidoo was someplace.