West of Washoe (11 page)

Hot springs abound through the region and the geology continues to evolve. For the foreseeable future, the amount of gold and silver being taken from the Comstock will, taken as a whole, continue to increase. Based on my experience and judgment, the greatest deposits of precious metals remain to be found.

Ross put down his pen, got up, stretched, and walked around the room, stopping to stare out the window. How much of what he was writing was based on fact, and how much on speculation? He would stake his reputation and his life on the prediction that this area would be vastly productive for at least another fifty years.

He sat back down at the table and dipped his pen into the ink bottle. He continued to write, revise, and edit until mid-afternoon.

Finally satisfied for the time being, he put his writing materials under the bed and slipped on his corduroy jacket.

He’d had several hours to ponder his alternatives. His course of action was finally decided by the mental image of the dying miner, Jacob Sturm. He strode down the street two blocks to the rented room where Jacob Sturm lived. Ross was in luck. The roommate, John Rucker, was there, and awake.

“Come in,” the miner said, answering the knock and holding the door open.

“How is he?” Ross asked, nodding at the sleeping Sturm in his bunk.

Rucker shook his head, and guided Ross to the other end of the room before he spoke. “I’m doing all I can,
but I doubt he’ll last out the week. The doc gave me some pain medicine to ease him along.”

“Is he still drinking that damned elixir?”

Rucker nodded. “If he wants it, I let him have some. Can’t hurt anything now. He says it helps.”

“Can I get anything for him…or for you?”

“No. When he wakes up, I’ll give him some food before I go to work.”

“You’re really the one I came to see,” Ross said. “Wanted to ask if any of the miners said anything about Gunderson trying to lose me in the Blue Hole.” Ross briefly related his experience in the mine, and his eventual escape.

“I heard someone pulled a gun on two of the men and forced them to take him to the main shaft hoist. So that was you?”

“Yeah.”

“Jorge said you came up, yelling for Gunderson. I don’t blame you. Gunderson showed up later…from another exit, like a damned prairie dog. Told the two miners you’d somehow wandered off and got separated and he wanted to apologize. Said he was going to look for you to see what you thought of the mine as a prospect for your buyers. I think he called you by another name.”

“Gibbons. I made out to represent some buyers from San Francisco,” Ross said. “So that’s the way he’s going to play it…deny everything and make out like it was all an accident. And I can’t prove otherwise.” Ross reached into his coat pocket. “But I have something else here that will put pressure on the management and owners of the Blue Hole.”

He showed Rucker the ore samples he’d picked up, and explained he’d concluded the mine had been salted.

Rucker took the magnifying glass and the lumps of
ore to the window and examined them in clear daylight. “No doubt about it,” Rucker said, handing back the rock. “Might fool a layman who’s looking to buy a gold mine, though.”

“When’s the next union meeting?”

“Tomorrow night. Want me to tell them you’ve got some hard evidence?”

“Sure. And tell them to keep their eyes open for this while they’re digging.”

“We’re searched when we come off our shifts, to be certain we don’t steal any rich ore.”

“That’s all right. I have some right here. If the editor of the
Enterprise
agrees, everything I told you will appear in the next edition of the paper. That should force some kind of reaction.”

“Why don’t you give me that ore and let me show it at Union Hall?”

“Mining is your livelihood. I’m a mine inspector. Let me and the newspaper editor fight this battle. If we win, everybody will benefit, and no miners will be blackballed.”

“You’re taking one helluva chance,” Rucker said. “Men are gunned down or disappear every day in this town for a lot less than exposing crime in high places. Take my word for it, they’ll smash you like a bug.”

“They blindsided me once, but next time I’ll be ready.” Ross smiled grimly, placing a hand on his Navy Colt. “Tuttle, Fossett, and company will think they’ve stepped into a den of Mojave rattlers.”

Just before sundown, Ross returned to
The Territorial Enterprise
office. Workmen were putting the finishing touches on the restored window and frame. The smoke-blackened brick on the front of the building had been scrubbed clean, the wooden frame replaced, and the tall, narrow pane of glass installed. All that remained was for the frame to be painted, and the place would look as if it had never been damaged.

Ross found Scrivener at his desk and in a better state of mind than when he’d last seen him.

“Where’ve you been the last couple of days?” the editor greeted him.

“Gathering news for your paper,” Ross replied, pulling up a chair. He proceeded to relate his experience in the Blue Hole Mine and what he’d discovered from the ore samples brought out.

“Confirms our editorials were right all along,” Scrivener said. “If that superintendent was ordered to maroon you in the mine to die, then probably the owner found out who you really are. Not too surprising when you figure we ran a notice about your arrival and your purpose here. I’m sure a number of people in town have put your name and face together by now.”

Ross dug out the ore samples and Scrivener turned up the wick of his desk lamp, adjusted the spectacles on his sharp nose, and examined the rock carefully while Ross pointed out what to look for.

“Yes, I’ve seen examples of salted ore before,” Scrivener said, as if he didn’t really need any help. “These would fool most folks, though,” he added, swiveling his chair around to work the combination of the heavy floor safe behind him. “If you have no objections, I’ll stash these here for safekeeping, just in case. We have your word these came from the Blue Hole, but no hard proof. Though newspapers are not a court of law, we are the court of public opinion. It really doesn’t matter if what we know to be true cannot be proven to a certainty.” He locked the door, spun the combination, and swiveled back around to his desk. “I’ll write up a piece for the next edition.” He looked sharply at Ross, and added: “
If
that’s what you want. If you’d rather stay out of it, I’ll just do an editorial, stating I have proof of the owner’s duplicity and fraud. I won’t have to mention what it is or how I got it.”

“No, go ahead and tell how I got it and that I’m certain an attempt was made on my life…an attempt supposed to look like an accident.”

“You look a little dragged out,” Scrivener said, peering over the tops of his glasses. “Better get some rest. When this hits the paper, Fossett will be on the warpath again. No telling what he’ll try this time.”

Ross thought it prudent not to mention Clemens had confessed to starting this uproar with a couple of editorials that had hit close to the truth. Scrivener probably already knew Clemens was responsible. And if he didn’t, Ross wouldn’t be the one to enlighten him.

“It’s a shame you have to be pulled into all this,” the editor said. “You came to town to do a job and then move on. Now you’ve wound up being in the middle of a feud, a conspiracy, and a fraud.”

“I chose to become involved. After all, it affects my job when the mines are concerned. I know the richer mines are producing well, and the whole Washoe district is one of the world’s richest mineral areas. Nevada will soon become a state in order for the Union to get its hands on the tons of silver it provides. But I have to report it as I find it, the bad with the good.”

“All mining camps and boom towns are rough,” Scrivener said. “Hell, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I could be working for a paper back East and be dying of boredom.” He leaned back in his chair and propped a booted foot on the corner of the desk, pulling his pistol, and placing it atop a stack of yesterday’s edition. “Keep your Colt handy if you plan to deal yourself into this.” He dropped his foot to the floor, took up a pen, and flipped open the pewter inkstand on his desk. “All right, tell me again about your episode in the Blue Hole and where you found that ore, so I can take some notes.”

Ross slept well that night, mostly from sheer fatigue. The next morning he had breakfast of a boiled egg, toast, and coffee before taking off at a brisk walk toward Gold Hill. He’d dealt himself into the feud, and he meant to meet this Frank Fossett so he’d know him on sight, then evaluate his potential for danger.

He found the newspaper office in a row of unpretentious wooden buildings. At the front desk sat a young man in a white shirt, reading handwritten advertisements. “Can I help you?”

“Mister Fossett, please.”

“May I tell him who’s asking?”

“I’ll introduce myself.”

The man nodded, got up, and headed back through
the long room toward the pressroom. Several men were working with composing sticks at a type case along one wall.

A minute later a sandy-haired man of medium height strode toward the front desk. He carried his left arm in a sling.

“Yes?” the man asked.

“You’re the editor, Frank Fossett?”

“That’s right. Who’re you?”

“Can we step outside to talk? It’s private.”

“Lead on,” Fossett said.

Normal precaution not to let a stranger behind you
, Ross thought. He noted the editor was wearing a cross-draw holster containing a long pistol. The two men stepped out into the morning sunshine and moved a few feet to one side of the door. No pedestrians were passing at the moment.

“My name is Gilbert Ross, and I’m a government mine inspector,” Ross said with no preliminaries. “You’re editor of this paper and part owner of the Blue Hole Mine.” It was a confirming statement.

“I’m editor of the
Clarion
,” he replied. “As to what I own, that’s my own private business.”

“Not so private that word doesn’t get around,” Ross said. “And your business would be none of mine except for one thing. An attempt was made to kill me the other day when I was guided down into the mine to inspect it.”

“All right, I have a small interest in the Blue Hole as a silent partner, but I know nothing about the running of that mine or what goes on there. And what do you mean by an attempt to kill you?”

“I’m sure you already know, but I’ll tell you.” Ross briefly related the story.

“That makes no sense.” Fossett shrugged. “But you seem to be none the worse for the experience. I’m sure it was just your imagination.”

“I wish that’s all there was to it. As a silent partner, you see the reports of the amount of silver and gold being taken out of that mine?”

“Oh, now and then. Usually a quarterly report. They’re doing quite well, actually. Glad I had a little money to invest.”

“You’re a liar. That mine hasn’t taken out enough silver or gold to pay expenses in months.”

“Not that it’s any of your affair, but they would have to shut down operations if that were the case.”

“The owners are pushing worthless stock. Your paper runs editorials about the great value of the mine.”

Fossett shrugged, his fair face beginning to redden.

“You’re being paid to print lies.”

“
The Territorial Enterprise
engages in character assassination as part of their lying agenda,” Fossett retorted. “So what? Why do you care? Go report to the government whatever you want to report, and leave me alone, or I’ll make you wish you had.” His hand slid across his belly toward the cross-draw holster partially covered by the crooked arm in the sling.

Ross saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. “Keep your hand away from that gun.”

Fossett’s right hand fell to his side.

“I came here to tell you the
Enterprise
will report this week I was nearly killed in the mine, and I brought out some ore samples proving the mine was salted with flecks of gold. If you’re not aware of this, then you should be. If you are aware of it, you’d better get out now. And don’t be coming after Martin Scrivener, unless you want me to shoot you again.”

“
You
shot me?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “I mean…you would shoot me?”

“How’d you hurt your arm?” Ross asked.

“Fell off m’ horse and dislocated my shoulder.”

“I think under that bandage I’d find a bullet wound,” Ross challenged, not taking his gaze from Fossett.

“Lay a hand on me, you son-of-a-bitch, and I’ll kill you, if it’s the last thing I ever do,” Fossett said through gritted teeth. His face was flushed as he backed away, flexing his right hand.

Ross dropped his fingers to rest on the butt of his Colt. He started to say that he knew of the plot involving Tuttle and Ben Holladay, but refrained. Forewarned would be forearmed. This was enough warning for now. And he’d also thought better of mentioning Sam Clemens. If he could threaten this editor enough to get him to back off from any further conflict with Scrivener, then he’d inform Clemens, to forestall the young reporter’s desperate move of challenging Fossett to a duel. Ross had never thought of himself as particularly diplomatic, but the right word in the right place sometimes averted disaster.

“Just keep a cool head, Mister Fossett,” Ross said in a soothing tone. “We could have it out right here and now, but what would that prove? One or both of us would be wounded or killed and nothing else would change. I’ll be gone from here in a week or two at most. Then you can go back to doing whatever you were doing. But as long as I’m here, you’d better keep your head down.”

“Who in hell are you to threaten me?” The cords in Fossett’s neck were standing out. “You some kind of undercover lawman for the government?”

“No. Like I told you, I’m a mine inspector. But I don’t
like anyone trying to kill me, or my friends, while we’re trying to do our jobs. So take that as a threat or a warning or whatever you want. But if you try to harm Martin Scrivener, or anyone at the
Enterprise
, you’ll wind up filling one of those graves in the bone yard out yonder. Understand?”

The editor looked hate at him, but made no move, nor did he answer.

Ross pushed his advantage. “Remember…if anything happens to Martin Scrivener, or his paper, I’ll come looking for you. And it won’t be at night with a torch.” He backed away, hand still on the butt of his gun. Only when he was nearly a block away, did he turn his back and start his walk to Virginia City. The last view he had of Fossett, the editor was standing in the same place, staring in his direction. Ross didn’t know if he’d cowed the man, or if he’d only made things worse by aggravating the newsman’s hatred. But Ross was all for bringing this conflict out into the open. He was not much for skulking or subterfuge. He liked to know his enemies and confront them face to face.

For a couple of days, that’s where things rested. With daily soaks in a hot tub of water at the Chinese bathhouse, Ross recovered from his soreness, wrote a few more pages on his report, and settled into the routine of Virginia City. But he did not relax his vigilance. He never let down his guard, not knowing if Fossett, or one of his men, was going to ambush him. In Virginia City, where gunfire and murder were daily occurrences, it would probably not even make the front pages of the newspapers if his body were found in the street or an alley some night. They’d hold an inquest, a coroner’s jury would rule his demise was brought about by
bullets fired by “a person, or persons, unknown.” Martin Scrivener would probably claim his body and have him buried in the local cemetery. Then the editor would send a letter to his bosses in San Francisco or Washington. Except for his son and daughter, who might come to claim his remains for reburial, Gilbert Ross, within a few months, would be as forgotten by mankind as if he’d never existed. But, as he morosely pondered this over a beer one day in the Blind Mule, he reflected that his belief in an almighty, benevolent God was the only thing saving him from utter despair. Total anonymity…dust to dust…forever gone and forgotten. It was the fate of every human who’d ever lived, discounting those who’d done something to be written about in the history books. At least God knew and God would remember. An afterlife was his only hope, the only thing that kept him from throwing caution to the wind and going up against Fossett and his kind in a blind rage, and inviting a quick death.

The unsigned article about Ross’s near miss in the Blue Hole Mine, along with his finding of the doctored ore had appeared in
The Territorial Enterprise.
In addition, Scrivener had written a scorching editorial about mine fraud in general and the way armed outlaws and white-collar thieves were allowed to do as they pleased in the town, preying on law-abiding citizens. For two days following these newspaper articles, there was no response. And Ross never let on to anyone that he’d paid a visit to Frank Fossett. Ross had taken to meeting Martin Scrivener at the paper and going to supper with him about 9:00 p.m. each evening—a time that was about midway through the editor’s working day. They were seated in Barnum’s Restaurant one night, having their usual late supper, when Clemens came in and approached their table.

“Martin, I have some news.” He didn’t apologize for the interruption as he glanced at Ross. “You might as well hear this, too.”

Scrivener pushed back an empty chair. “Have a seat and tell us.”

“The Washoe Express is leaving tomorrow noon for San Francisco with an extra heavy load of gold ingots bound for the mint.”

Scrivener chuckled. “That’s hardly news. Nearly every stage out of here is loaded with bullion of some kind. It’s public knowledge.”

“This one is going to be held up in the mountains.”

“Outlaws hit damned near every stage that travels west of Washoe. Get to the point.”

“This is part of a plot to force Wells, Fargo to sell the Pioneer Line.”

“Who’s plotting?”

“Avery Tuttle, Frank Fossett, and Ben Holladay.”

“Speculation?” Scrivener arched his eyebrows.

The young reporter flushed. “No. But I can’t reveal my source.”

“If you want me to believe it, you’d better tell me.”

“Then it goes no further than the three of us.”

Both men nodded their agreement. “You got my word,” Ross said.

“OK.” Clemens glanced around as if to make sure no one else was within earshot. “Angeline Champeaux told me. She’d just finished a tryst with Avery Tuttle. She said Tuttle’s not usually a heavy drinker, but tonight he was celebrating the sale of a large block of Blue Hole Mine stock to some British investors, and had more champagne than he needed. She said he drank so much he couldn’t perform, so he made up for it by gabbing for an hour, and ended up paying her usual fee, anyway.”