He stopped me along Six-mile Canyon to pass on a bit of news.
Bill had been born and raised in Virginia City and, when he was old enough, he had joined the Navy and left town about as quick as he could. When he was thirteen, he had the misfortune of watching a drunken miner kill his saloon-keeping father.
Eventually, Bill returned, and he settled down, but not in VC. He had taken up residence in Dayton, but he did find occasion to come into VC now and again.
I was looking for a news story when Bill pulled up beside me, his wife and their children with him.
“Jus’ the man I want to see,” he said.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Passed by St. Mary a few minutes ago,” Bill said. “The doors are open, and it looks like they’ve been open all night.”
“The priest?” I asked.
“No sign of him,” Bill said. “I took a quick look inside, and the place is pretty busted up.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” I said.
Bill tipped his hat and drove off.
I capped my camera lens, felt for my pen and pad before driving towards the historic old church.