West of Washoe
Authors: Tim Champlin
Tim Champlin
LEISURE BOOKS 
NEW YORK CITY
Health and happiness
To my brother, Patrick,
Who is skilled at many things.
“Throw up your hands!” came a sharp command.
Caught on a narrow road with no room to turn and nowhere to go, the two guards were helpless under the muzzles of the rifles. Moody swore explosively as he slowly moved his hands to shoulder height, still holding the lines.
“Heave down the box!” a bandit commanded.
Moody wrapped the lines around the brake handle and leaned forward. “Gimme a hand with this,” he muttered to the shotgun messenger as he reached below his feet into the boot.
The driver and guard gripped a handle on either side of a box and heaved it up and out, letting it fall to the dirt with a
thump.
“Well, well! That sounds like it’s full of something almighty heavy. Gold, maybe?” the masked robber said.
“Rocks,” Moody said.
“We’ll see about that,” the robber said. “If it’s rocks, I’ll leave your guts inside this box for your boss to find.”
“Hyah!”
Gil Ross was jarred out of a sound sleep as the coach lunged ahead. His eyes flew open. Blackness. Whistles and shouts came from the box as the driver cracked his whip, urging the six-horse hitch to a gallop.
Ross was irritated at being rudely awakened. But sudden instinct rang an alarm bell.
What was going on?
Before he could reach to yank aside the canvas curtain by the coach window, a hole exploded in the right side door panel and a load of buckshot slammed into the empty middle bench seat.
“Damn!” He jerked back, stray pellets stinging his shin.
The woman beside him screamed, and Ross pulled her down behind him on the leather seat, fearing the next shot would come through the window.
“My God, we’ll all be killed!” the fat whiskey drummer cried, cringing into the opposite corner of the coach.
In one smooth motion, Ross slid his Navy Colt from its holster and went to one knee on the floor, pulling back the window drape.
Cold rain was slashing sideways. A muzzle flash stabbed the blackness and he snapped off a shot in that direction. Shouts and curses were punctuated by gunfire. Vague, moving forms of horses were receding in the murk. He flinched as a bullet struck splinters from the window sill by his cheek.
He fired twice more at muzzle flashes, then emptied
his six-shot revolver in the general direction of the riders pursuing them. The blurred forms disappeared from his vision, swallowed up in the blackness behind, as the coach picked up speed, rocking and pitching on the narrow road. Wet tree limbs whipped past his face, and he pulled back from the window. He could hear rifle fire from atop the coach, so the guard still had the attackers in sight.
A long half minute passed, and the firing from above ceased. Ross moved to the other side, and looked out, but could see nothing. Bracing himself against the wild motion of the coach, he waited another two minutes, wishing he could see well enough to reload his Navy Colt with black powder.
“Are they still out there?” The woman’s voice was shaky.
“I think they gave it up.” Ross had no way of knowing, but wanted to reassure her. “Anybody hurt?” he asked, holstering his gun.
“No,” she said, a little more calmly. “Just scared out of my wits.”
“I’m not hit,” the drummer replied.
Ross fingered a match from his vest pocket and raked it against the wood paneling. He squinted against the flare, then held the steady flame to examine the damage to his shin just above the boot top. A few pellets had raked the skin, drawing a trickle of blood.
“Oh, you’re wounded!” The match went out and he heard her scuffing in the dark. “Here, pour a little of this on it.” She pressed a small flask into his hand. He pulled the stopper and sniffed. Whiskey. “Thanks.” He splashed a little onto his fingers and rubbed it on his shin, feeling the satisfying sting of alcohol. “Maybe I should have taken the day coach,” he muttered, handing back the flask.
“Then you wouldn’t have been here to defend us,” she said, turning up the flask for a nip before slipping it into her handbag. “I thought this night run would be safer, too,” she said. “Had a hard time finding out about this coach.”
“The company doesn’t advertise,” Ross said. “They try to make irregular, unannounced runs at night across the Sierras to avoid hold-ups. Seems like every coach to or from Washoe to Sacramento and the Coast is carrying bullion, coin, or personal valuables.”
“The day coaches are a lot more crowded,” she added. “And I hear tell they’re robbed even more often. Guess these robbers can see better in daylight. They don’t seem to have any fear of being shot or caught.”
“Reckon they figure it’s worth the risk since nearly all the coaches are carrying treasure.”
The driver had not slowed the team. The heavy Concord leaned precariously into a curve, its spinning wheels skidding sideways in the muddy ruts of the mountain road. The woman was thrown against him. A second later, the six-horse hitch jerked the careening coach upright, and they plunged ahead out of the turn.
“Sorry.” She pushed herself upright, grabbing the window sill to steady herself.
“No need to apologize,” he said, savoring her scented presence.
Ross hoped they’d finally outrun or discouraged the gunmen. Or were these attackers working in groups, running the coach into an ambush up ahead, in the manner of hunting lions? He was thankful he’d packed a loaded back-up gun for any last-ditch emergencies. The weapon—a Smith & Wesson .32 cartridge revolver—had a four-inch barrel and fit snugly in the inside pocket of his coat.
Pulling aside the canvas curtain, Ross squinted
against rain that was turning to stinging sleet as they ascended into colder mountain air.
Black as the inside of my boot,
he thought.
Where are we?
Jagged lightning ripped the darkness, its brief glare revealing the tops of wildly thrashing pines in the cañon below. The edge of the road fell away barely three feet from the flying hoofs of their team. Blinding light winked out and his senses were numbed by a cannonade of thunder that
boomed
from rock wall to timbered cañon, drowning the drum roll of hoof beats and the
rattle
of trace chains.
“Hyah! Hyah!”
The cries and
popping
of the driver’s whip sounded faintly on the gusting crosswind as the coach hurtled along at liver-curling speed somewhere east of Placerville and west of Washoe, bound for Virginia City. The highwaymen had somehow found out about this run. Ross had to assume they also knew the coach was burdened with bags of freshly minted gold and silver coins from the San Francisco mint.
“We got past those road agents, but now that damned driver’s gonna run us off into one these cañons and kill us, sure,” the whiskey drummer whined.
“Not likely,” Ross said, even though his own stomach was tensing. “A good team of horses, given their head, can hold a familiar road in the dark or blinding snow, even when the driver can’t see the wheelers’ tails.” He hoped his manner had a calming affect because he knew the team’s leaders were being severely tested tonight. “Besides, don’t you know who’s up there, handling the ribbons? It’s Frank Moody, the best driver on the Pioneer Line.” He gestured at the woman passenger in the dark. “If this lady isn’t scared, why should you be?”
“Yeah,” the drummer growled. “But all the same, I wish we were in Virginia City.”
“Come daylight, we will be.” He felt he had to say
something further, thinking a confident tone might allay the man’s uneasiness. “That hold-up try was really stupid. Or maybe those gunmen were just overconfident, thinking they could stop this coach and challenge the guard in the middle of a wild storm. They’ll never catch us now. Moody’s driving like those lightning bolts are flaming pitchforks from hell.”
A few minutes later, the coach began to slow and Ross sensed the long grade was steepening.
“Whoa!”
The coach came to a halt, rocking gently on its leather thorough braces.
Ross climbed out, leaving the other two inside. If there was enough illumination from the side lanterns of the coach, he’d reload his Colt. There wasn’t.
Wrapping the reins around the brake handle, Moody stepped down. The guard remained on the box, shoving cartridges into the loading tube under the barrel of his Henry rifle.
“Everybody all right?” Moody asked in a rolling bass voice. Ross saw only the faint white blob of Moody’s linen duster as the driver came around to check on the woman passenger still inside.
A gust from the valley behind them brought the cold, damp smell of rain. Small pellets of sleet bounced off Ross’s hat brim. He shivered. The wind was getting up on its hind legs, he thought, listening to the roar in the tops of the giant ponderosas. He’d heard that sound before—in the rigging of a brigantine off Cape Horn.
A flicker of lightning illuminated the scene in stark, white light.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Moody exploded. Then quickly added: “Apologies, ma’am.”
Ross saw the reason for his anger. The varnished
door paneling, on which was painted a peaceful scene of the Lakes of Killarney, now bore a ragged hole the size of a saucer.
Moody muttered something under his breath, damning all robbers to perdition. He went around the coach, checking the leather tie-down on the rear luggage boot, giving a tug on each muddy wheel to be sure everything was secure. He pulled off his gloves and walked forward to the team, stroking each horse, speaking softly in his soothing voice. The animals were blowing and tossing their heads, hides and breath steaming.
A mixture of cold raindrops and sleet began to spatter down as Moody came back.
“How’d you get past ’em?” Ross asked.
“By God, I’d had enough and decided this time it was them or me,” Moody declared, removing his big hat and wiping a sleeve across his face. “When they yelled to hold up, I just ducked down and yelled at the guard to let ’em have it. Whipped up the team and tried to run down that s.o.b. who was afoot in the middle of the road. Reckon he thought we’d stop when he had the drop on us. But it was dark and raining and I figured our chances were as good as his. But he was faster than the horses and hopped outta the way and cut loose with a shotgun as we went past. Glad nobody inside was hit.”
Ross didn’t bother to mention the buckshot that’d raked his leg.
“Once we got the jump, they couldn’t ride alongside ’cause the road’s too narrow and lined with trees,” Moody went on. “Near as I could tell there were three or four of ’em.” He paused and looked back down the dark road. “I think they’ve given it up as a bad job tonight. They ain’t too smart or they would’ve
waylaid us at the top of the grade when the horses were winded.” He looked at Ross in the dim light of the side lantern. “What’s your name?”
“Gil Ross.”
“Ross, thanks for lending us a dose or two of hot lead to help fend ’em off.”
“Wish I had a rifle.”
“Next time, bring one.” Moody put a boot on the front wheel hub and swung up to this lofty seat. “Get aboard and hang on. We’ll make some time.”
Ross pulled off his long, woolen scarf and stuffed it into the hole in the door to keep out the cold and wet. He boarded and slammed the door just as the coach lurched ahead, throwing him back into the seat.
Ross peered into the dimness, trying to get a good look at the woman. She’d come aboard at the Strawberry Valley station while he was dozing. Now, wrapped in her traveling cloak, her feet encased in high-buttoned shoes and propped on a carpetbag, she leaned into the far corner. Except for her initial fright, she seemed pretty self-assured, and he couldn’t help but wonder what business was taking her to the mining towns and why she was traveling alone—possibly to get work in one of the sporting houses in Virginia City or Gold Hill or Carson? Only last year, soiled doves had been brought in by the coach load to fill the demand. He wondered if things had settled down some. This was his second trip to Virginia City. In the spring of 1860, lacking roads and available transportation, he’d shouldered a pack and hiked over the mountains, following the flood of prospectors rushing to get in on the new silver strikes. He’d not gone in search of precious metal, but was sent by
Harper’s Weekly
to report on the new diggings, the first major boom in more than ten years.
Although this was primarily a silver rush, enough gold was mixed in the ore to keep the price of mine stock fluctuating wildly.
Four long years had passed since his first visit, and apparently things were now considerably changed. Groups of enterprising men had graded toll roads on certain stretches to level out the old trails. Trains of pack mules were replaced by lumbering freight wagons and regular stagecoach service. Deep shafts and drifts were dug and timbered. Heavy hoisting equipment was hauled in. Miners who worked for hourly wages on shifts around the clock were now digging and blasting out tons of ore to be crushed by pounding stamp mills. Ingots of rich metal were molded, crated, and hauled in heavy wagons over the mountains to San Francisco.
Speculation was rampant. If newspaper accounts and rumors could be believed, paupers one day were millionaires the next, then paupers the following week. The lowliest clerks and barmaids and stable hands traded mining stock on a daily basis, fleecing one another and outsiders with regularity. To Ross, it was amazing. The heavy blue mud that’d clogged the sluices of early gold placer miners had turned out to be the richest silver ore on earth.
Now he was returning—not as a magazine reporter, but as an employee of the federal government, inspecting the potential richness of the region’s mines. There was little pressure on him to hurry, since statehood would soon be a fact. President Lincoln reportedly wanted the wealth and votes of the new state of Nevada for the Union. With or without Ross’s report, statehood would be assured before the fall election.
Political connections—a California senator was a
personal friend—had landed him this job. But critics of the spoils system couldn’t cry too loudly, since Ross was qualified for the position by two years of college geology and a year of practical experience as a miner.
Ross’s wife was dead of typhus, and his two children grown and on their own, so he was concerned only with supporting himself. It wasn’t difficult, but his life was rather lonely. That was one reason he caught himself looking with interest at any reasonably attractive female he came across in his travels. Whether they looked back was another matter. He flattered himself that he appeared younger than his actual age of forty-seven. The fact that he went against current fashion by remaining clean-shaven strengthened the impression of youthfulness.
The coach lurched into a hole and he grabbed for the hanging strap with one hand. How long before they came down out of these mountains? He was confident Moody knew his business and had driven this road several hundred times in all kinds of weather, winter and summer. But anyone could make a mis-calculation. Constant dampness could have rotted a leather thorough brace, an axle could break, or a wheel could ride a few inches over the lip of a washed-out trail, sending the coach tumbling and splintering into a ravine. The possibilities were nothing he cared to ponder.