A Toast to the Ghosts

c 2021 by Jan MacKell Collins

Yeah I know Halloween is a long way off, but this writing has nothing to do with that sacred holiday. Rather, I’ve just recently been tracking down cemeteries in my area, and it turns out that there are lots of them. Some are still used, some are abandoned, and some have no trace left to show that they were there to begin with. For me, however, a graveyard is a sign that someone lived nearby, be it a ranch or homestead or an actual town. And often, just reading the name, date and inscription on a tombstone can tell you a lot about the occupant and how they lived.

When you are an historian, the people you fall in love with in your line of work are, unfortunately, dead. They cannot rise from the grave and tell you about their past. There is no pointing the way to where they were born or where they lived. Unless they left written record, there is no way of knowing their favorite color, or what they liked to eat, or how they felt about themselves and their lives. Thus their end is often my beginning as I look for the graves of my subjects to glean information and research for the story of their lives. Doing so brings closure for me, since a grave is literally the last place a person is seen. I find it ironic that the beginning for me starts with the end of another.

Having spent years studying old mortuary records and exploring graveyards, the frontier approach to death fascinates me. It is surprising, for instance, how many people died without socks—a standard item appearing on most mortuary forms. Death came so often in those days that caskets were given elaborate and comforting names—the “Fairy Couch” comes to mind, usually sold to widowers or the mothers of young girls. And, long after the burial, families once made day excursions to picnic at the graves of their loved ones on a regular basis.

Like those families of yesteryear, I like cemeteries. They are quiet, and peaceful. Their graves are, or were, lovingly tended by their families. When I see a flower vase on its side, or a flag that has come out of its holder, or leaves and mud covering a flat gravestone, I can’t help but tidy it up a bit. I have been known to talk to the occupants, sympathizing with their plight at the end. Sometimes I read their name out loud, because it has probably been a long time since someone did that. I like to think I am making sure they will never be forgotten.

Cemeteries also provide the proper thrills if one’s in the mood for a jolt. My mom and I once visited a wonderful graveyard in Colorado on an appropriately overcast day. I noticed that a vault door was slightly ajar, and as I moved away I swore I saw the door move. We were leaving anyway, but my heart missed a beat when the car inexplicably wouldn’t start. “Oh God, Mom!” I whimpered, grabbing her arm. She had a good laugh as she tried again and the car fired right up. Another time I accompanied the melodrama actors in Cripple Creek, Colorado on their annual “final show” jaunt to the local graveyard (sadly, they don’t do this anymore). It was late and very dark; I thought I was very clever for sneaking ahead and laying on a grave, waiting to pop up and scare someone. It was quite comfortable there, until I became aware that the voices around me had grown faint. Sitting up, I discovered everyone had headed out of the entrance far away from me. As much as I scrambled to get out of there, I never did catch up with them and felt like I was being watched as I walked very quickly towards the gate.

There are those who think cemeteries are creepy, and as someone who has heard voices and the cry of a baby while alone in one, I can certainly understand. But hearing voices, and the sounds of the living in places where nobody is alive, is normal in my line of work even if it does occasionally give me chills. These aren’t ghosts, to me anyway. It’s more like they are people lost in some sort of ethereal time warp, walking and talking as if they were still on this earth. And all of them have a story to tell. I don’t get vandals and other creepy people who think it’s ok to tip over tombstones and spray paint memorials. One day (unless you’re into cremation, which I am not), each of us will end up in a graveyard—the last sure sign we were ever on this earth to begin with. Be respectful.

That brings me to one of my favorite stories, and a good one to end with. Several years ago in California, I read of a woman who kept dreaming about a particular house. The dream was quite vivid, always ending with a strange man in a butler outfit looking horrified when he opened the front door. This went on for years, until one day the woman was forced by construction work to detour through an unfamiliar, fancy neighborhood. There, she saw the house from her dreams. Of course the woman stopped, went to the door, and rang the bell. Sure enough a butler answered. He gazed at her in horror, just like he did in the dream. Quickly she explained why she was there, ending with the question of whether the house was haunted. “Yes it is,” the butler stammered, “and YOU are the ghost.”

Faded Trails in Arizona: Alexandra, A Mining Dream in the Making

c 2021 by Jan MacKell Collins

Portions of this article first appeared in the Frontier Gazette.

The story of Alexandra begins with Thomas and Catharine Alexander, who migrated to Prescott back in 1864. Thomas served as a director of the Prescott and Mohave Road Company, became a postmaster in Prescott, and later established a cattle ranch in Sycamore Canyon. In 1875, Alexander joined prospectors Edward G. Peck, Curtis Coe Bean and William Cole in exploring the Bradshaw Mountains. Peck noticed an unusual rock that turned out to be rich in silver, and the Peck Mine was staked on June 16, 1875.

Over the next decade, the Peck would produce over a million dollars in silver. By September of 1876 a community of 20 buildings near the mine was home to roughly 60 men. They called it Alexandra after Thomas Alexander. In addition to his investment in the Peck Mine, Alexander also staked the Black Warrior mine and eventually opened a mercantile.

Newspapers began taking note about the goings on at Alexandra beginning in 1877. In June, the Arizona Miner newspaper predicted that Alexandra would be “quite a place,” reporting there were “two large stores, Alexander & Company, and Andres & Rowe; three boarding houses, four places were spiritual refreshments are provided, two livery stables, one butcher shop, one blacksmith shop,” and more. The Peck partners had expended nearly $2,000 laying out the town and even grading the main streets.

Because the nearest mill was at Aztlan some thirty miles away, Alexander next built the Peck Mill in December 1877. “The general impression is that this is destined to be the best camp in the whole Territory, if not on the whole Pacific slope,” predicted the Miner on July 26, 1878. Just a few weeks later, on August 6, the post office opened, with Joseph Drew as postmaster. More hotels, restaurants and saloons opened, as well as John Ellis’ “Gold Room Resort” and even a brewery.

Alas, the good times were not destined to last at Alexandra. In 1879, the Peck partners got into a dispute over rights to the mine, which closed during litigation. People began leaving town. By 1880 the Alexanders had returned to Prescott, and it was Catharine who finally sued the Peck Mining Company “to recover the value of stock in that company”. She won, too, in January of 1881 to the tune of $80,000. “In many respects this is the most important case ever tried in the Courts of the Territory,” concluded the Arizona Miner.

Alexandra never had an official cemetery, but there were some deaths and subsequent burials. The first of these was a Mr. Marson, who accidentally fell into his partner’s bloody butcher knife in 1877. He was buried somewhere near the town. Then, in December 1890, a freighter named Grant LeBarr was shot to death at Alexandra. A letter from Sheriff “Bucky” O’Neill to LeBarr’s father—in—law, Dr. O.J. Thibode of Phoenix, explained that LeBarr and James M. Stoop were amongst those drinking at Refiel’s Saloon when a “dispute arose between the two in regard to some trivial matter.” The men made up their differences, but Stoop left, returning with a revolver. The man “took deliberate aim” and shot LeBarr, who died within minutes. O’Neill assured Thibode that LeBarr “has been buried at the Peck mine in the best shape possible, the entire camp suspending all work during the funeral.” Stoop, whom witnesses said had a “break down” in jail, ended his own life by swiping a fellow prisoner’s razor and slitting his own throat.

Alexandra’s post office closed in 1896. Two years later, Catharine Alexander died, followed by her husband in 1910. A new shaft had been sunk at the Peck Mine in 1903 and the railroad came through on the way to Crown King in 1904, but it was all for naught and Alexandra was abandoned. Arizona’s arid climate kept the old buildings preserved for some time. During the 1970’s, several houses remained at Alexandra. Virgil Snyder, who lived in the last standing house in town, was the last caretaker beginning in about 1985.

In about 2016, the Peck and several other mines were purchased by Q—Gold Resources, which was exploring further silver potential at the mine. Meanwhile, not much remains of Alexandra and its surrounding mines. The townsite lies high on the mountain about four and a half miles west of Cleator. Four wheel drive or an ATV is required to visit, but be aware of no trespassing signs.