Gold (36 page)

“
I loved her so much. I remember the first time
I ever saw her, she was so ...” He broke off, sob
bing, and she rocked him in her arms. After a
long time he quieted.

“
Lie back on the pillow,” she said. When he
did, she drew the blankets up around him.

“
Go to sleep now,” she said.

“
Will you kiss me goodnight?”

She leaned down and their lips met. When he put his arm around her shoulders and held her to
him, she gently removed it and stood up.

“
Not goodnight, King,” she said. “Goodbye.”

She walked through the parlor, picking up her hat and shawl, locked the room behind her and slipped the key under the door. In the street, she
looked up at his window. She thought she saw
King watching her but couldn’t be sure. She
walked to the corner where her carriage waited.
She didn’t look back again.

CHAPTER
TWENTY THREE

“And what do you have to report?” William Coleman asked.

“
Not much as yet” Barry said, “On the surface Wordsworth Rynne is operating within the law.”

“
You talked to Sutton? You saw the story in the
Californian,
didn’t you?

“
Yes to both questions. King Sutton was evasive and the investors I’ve questioned about the Golconda would just as soon forget about the whole business. Sutton or Rynne or whoever bilked them made them look like proper fools. As for Curie at the
Californian,
he has hearsay back up his story, nothing more.

“
I’m disappointed.”

“
As far as the mining scheme goes, all things considered, I think Rhynne was more a victim then anything else.”

“
If only gambling were illegal in California. It wasn’t under the Mexicans and now that were a state we haven’t been able to outlaw it. We will, we well.”

“
When I have more definite results,” Barry said “I’ll let you know.”

“
If Rhynne makes one slip…”

Barry finished the sentence,
“Then we’ll have him.”

W.W. Rhynne hummed to himself, tapping his cane on the boardwalk in time to the tune. He liked his new German tailor. Strauss had delivered the first order of miners’ shirts and trousers for the Hangtown store a week ahead of the promised date. Good quality cloth, too. The tailor had told him he brought the denim west to sell as tenting. Only to find the miners didn’t want tents as much as they wanted good durable pants.

Rhynne nodded to the clerk behind the desk in the lobby of the
Fremont. What excuse would Sutton find tonight for not having the money for him. Or would he have it? He might have pawned or sole his opal ring. Or gone to Pamela again. I’ll never understand women. Rhynne thought. Still he smiled, thinking of her. That best part of a woman’s life, he thought, paraphrasing Wordsworth, her little nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love. He was at the top of the stairs when he heard the shot.

He listened, expe
cting another. He heard nothing. The sound had come from the hall ahead of him. From Sutton’s rooms? The thought of Sutton killing himself leaped
unbidden into Rhynne’s mind. He rejected it. King
Sutton? Never.

He strode along the hall and knocked on Sut
ton’s door. There was no answer. He tried the
knob, found the door unlocked and pushed it
open. He sniffed. Gunpowder. A single lamp glowed on a table on the far side of the parlor.
Sutton lay face down on the floor beside the table.

Rhynne quickly crossed the room, knelt, and
turned Sutton over. He was breathing quick, shal
low breaths. There was a wound in his upper left
chest and the hole in his white shirt was rimmed with
red.

Hearing a sound from the rear of the suite,
Rhynne stood up. He threw open the door to the
dining room and hurried through that room to the
rear hall, shifting the cane to his left hand and
taking a derringer from his pocket with his right. He went to the top of the stairs. He saw a fleeing
figure in the shadows at the bottom of the stair
well. Rhynne fired, deliberately aiming too low
to kill.

“
Stop,” he shouted.

The door at the bottom of the stairs slammed
shut. Rhynne pounded down the steps, opened the
door and ran out into the night. The alleyway was
dark. He saw no one, heard no one, so he turned
and climbed the stairs to Sutton’s rooms.

He found a man kneeling beside Sutton and
recognized the clerk he had seen a few minutes
before in the lobby. McGregor? Yes, the man’s
name was McGregor.

“
I couldn’t catch him,” Rhynne said.
McGregor stared at him. Belatedly, Rhynne
realized he still held the derringer. He put the gun
back into his pocket.

“
I’ll send for a doctor,” McGregor said, slowly
backing to the open door. Once out of Rhynne’s
sight, he ran along the corridor.

Rhynne went to Sutton and felt his pulse. It
was weak but steady. The opal ring, he saw, was missing from Sutton’s right hand. Rhynne looked
around the room; nothing seemed to have been
disturbed.

How did I manage to get into this? he wondered
as he stood up. He recalled the angry confrontation with King Sutton the night before at Pierre’s over the editorial in the newspaper. And tonight. He’d even fired his gun. Who’d believe his story
that he’d surprised an assailant—a thief—and
shot at him?

Certainly McGregor didn
’t, not by the looks of him when he fled the room. Nor would Coleman
or Fitzpatrick. Even those who knew him might
raise an eyebrow. He realized he would himself
if asked to believe such an unlikely tale.

Rhynne walked swiftly to the rear hall and
down to the alley where he turned away from the clamor of Fremont Street. He’d need money; he’d need time. He headed toward the Golden Empire.
He heard the summons of the Monumental
Engine Company’s bell, ignoring it until the
ringing failed to stop after a few minutes.

The Vigilantes
’ signal to assemble at Battery Street.
Rhynne stopped. Not to the Empire, that would be the first place they’d look. To Rincon
Hill and Pamela? No, the obvious hiding places
would be the most dangerous.
Where then? Who would dare help him? It must be someone so unlikely the Committee
would never suspect.
Wisps of fog drifted toward him. A man ap
proached, glanced at him, and passed on. Rhynne fought down the urge to run, forcing himself to
remain where he was. Don’t panic, he told himself.
Decide, then do whatever’s necessary. He pulled
his coat closer to ward off the chill of the fog.
Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of him before? A long shot, but this was the time for long
shots. Sometimes when you were losing you could
recoup with one daring play. Not often, perhaps
once out of ten times. If he had any luck left this
would be that time.
Rhynne set off along the street with his cane
thrust jauntily beneath his arm.

“
Are you sure?” Barry Fitzgerald asked.

“
It’s the God’s truth. At the Fremont. Mcgregor saw the whole thing. Sutton and Rynne had at each other, then Rynne pulls a gun and shoots him.”

“
Is Sutton dead?”

“
No, they say the doctor’s with him now. He’s hurt bad, though.”

“
How long ago did it happen?”

“
Fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”

Barry tossed the boy a coin.
“You made good time,” he told him.

“
Got a message for me to take back to Mr. Coleman?”

“
Tell him I’ll be by later tonight.”

The boy nodded and ran off.

As Barry strode along the street, the fog closed
in around him. When he licked his lips he tasted the tang of salt. In the distance, the fire bell sud
denly stopped.

These first few hours, Barry knew, were crucial.
This was the time most mistakes were made and
most opportunities lost. He must act and act deci
sively. He’d overestimated Rhynne, seen him as a
devious, clever man, not one to shoot an enemy
with a witness present. Barry shrugged. He’d been
wrong before and probably would be again. The
danger now was in thinking Rhynne too easy an
adversary.

When he pushed his way into the Golden Em
pire, the gambling saloon was as crowded and
noisy as he remembered it. Word of the shooting
must not have reached here yet, he thought.

Barry looked for McSweeney as he made his way past the bar but the big man wasn’t in sight. He opened the door leading to Rhynne’s private
quarters and went up the stairs. The hallway at
the top was deserted and the door to Rhynne’s office
was locked.

Barry threw his weight against the door and
heard wood splinter inside. Again he slammed his
shoulder against it. The bolt tore from the inside
wall and the door flew open. Barry stood just out
side the doorway for a moment, listening until he
was satisfied the dark room was empty, then went
in, closing the door behind him. Groping along
the top of the nearest table, he found a lamp, lit it
and looked around.

The room seemed unchanged. He leafed
through the papers on Rhynne’s desk. Nothing there. He opened the top drawer and found a ledger for the Hangtown hotel and another for the store. He put them on top of the desk.

“
So it’s a robber you are now.” McSweeney
stood in the doorway with a Walker Colt in his hand.

“
Rhynne shot King Sutton,” Barry said.

McSweeney
’s blank stare told Barry he hadn’t
heard the news.

“
Even if true, which I doubt, that gives you no
license to steal.”

“
I’m looking for Rhynne.”

“
He’s usually not to be found in his desk.”

Barry said nothing.

“By whose authority?”

“
The Committee of Vigilance.”

McSweeney grunted.
“That’s no authority at
all,” he said. For a long minute he made no move,
as though weighing his options.

“
Rhynne’s a hunted man,” Barry said.

“
We’ll see what the sheriff has to say to all
this.” McSweeney motioned Barry to leave the
room ahead of him.

Barry walked from behind the desk.

“Keep a comfortable distance,” the big man told him.

Barry veered away from him toward the table. He swung his arm at the lamp, sending it hurtling to one side, at the same time throwing himself to
the floor in the opposite direction. The lamp
crashed but stayed lit; McSweeney’s gun cracked,
the shot going wild.

Before he could fire again, Barry hurled himself at McSweeney, twisted his wrist and sent the
pistol spinning away to thud on the carpet.
McSweeney leaped back, tripping on a cuspidor. Recovering, he lunged for Barry. Barry hit him in the eyes, kneed him in the groin, and the big man
grunted with pain.

Seeing the pistol from the corner of his eye,
Barry leaped to one side and grabbed it. Mc
Sweeney came at him, stopping abruptly when he
came face to face with the muzzle of the Walker
Colt.

“
I wouldn’t,” Barry said when he saw McSweeney poise to charge him again. He clicked the hammer back, his finger tightening on the
trigger.

McSweeney relaxed.
“Another day,” he said.

“
Perhaps.” Holding the gun on the big man,
Barry went to the desk and picked up the two
ledgers. He crossed the room, pausing at the door.