1 - Desert Magazine of the Southwest

]\fcMillen's
Centennial
lORTH OF Globe, Arizona, just nine
I miles, within sight of U.S. 60,
| McMillen is celebrating its Centennial,
yet many pass by not seeing the
ghost town.
Travelers pull into the roadside rest
with its large concrete table, roofed with
palm fronds and read the historical
marker which tells of Charles McMillen,
veteran prospector, and his tenderfoot
partner, Theodore Harris, who discovered
the silver ledge, the richest in the
country, on this eastern slope of the
Apache Mountains. Looking westward
the brown hills, cloaked in chaparral and
mesquite, with splashes of wild flowers,
stretch on to the purple serrated peaks,
but there's no sign of a ghost town.
The reason is two-fold. Several years
ago, U.S. 60 was moved eastward in this
area due to washouts. In addition, The
Marker should be .3 mile farther north.
Just south of the bridge spanning Seven
Mile Wash is McMillen's Main Street. A
road to the east, about 40 feet long, leads
to a gate beyond which stands a large
tree sheltering a concrete-covered grave.
The grave was robbed of its sandstone
marker, the wooden fence fell to ruin.
The name of the miner's six-year-old
daughter has been lost, and old-timers
can't agree if she died of diptheria or
snake bite.
Directly opposite, on the west side of
U.S. 60, Main Street continues, and .1
mile west a portion of the old adobe
assay building is visible from the
highway. Mountain brush, prickly pear
cactus and wild flowers usurp part of the
road, once Main Street, where freight
wagons rumbled. To the left is the assay
building, its tin roof blown off. One wall
has fallen, leaving the fireplace standing
as if to warm the world. From the front
door are visible other windowless
adobes. Just beyond, a remnant of the
crusher lies by the stone wall. On the
hillside are mounds of adobe attesting to
by SHAWN DENNIS
houses leveled by onslaught of wind and
rain. Up the road to the left is the shaft of
the fabulous Stonewall Jackson Mine,
protected by a gate lest visitors meet
with disaster.
Cottontails frisk by as old-timers pay a
last farewell, or an eagle-eyed mining
engineer scans the terrain, for it's
believed that the main vein has never
been touched. There might even be a
ghost or two from that long ago.
A hundred years ago, in late February,
the hills were silent as Charles
McMillen and his young partner, Dore
Harris, rode from new Globe City toward
the Mogollon country to prospect for
gold. They had a handsome outfit of two
well-laden burros and saddle horses.
There was just one problem. Charlie
had embibed too much tarantula juice in
new Globe City the night before. Now
the afternoon sun beaming down made
him sag in the saddle.
"Dory, gotta stop. Gotta take a nap,"