West of Washoe (12 page)

“I thought Angeline had more class than to mess with Avery Tuttle,” Scrivener mused softly.

“Well,” Clemens went on, “she got to prying and he bragged about this plot and the fact that he and Fossett were essentially working for the great Ben Holladay. Holladay will get the money from the stock sale to finance his scheme. He hires the outlaws, and ships the ingots under another name. When the stages are robbed, Holladay splits with the outlaws. Then his surrogate shipper claims reimbursement from Wells, Fargo and returns most of it back to Holladay. If Wells, Fargo has to continue paying out for big losses, they’ll soon go bust and have to get rid of the staging part of their business. Holladay is waiting to snap it up at a bargain price.”

Scrivener sat silently for a few moments. “We can’t risk getting Angeline killed by publishing this, ‘cause Tuttle would know where the information came from. Besides, we’d also warn the plotters.” He stroked his goatee and stared at the ceiling. “Wells, Fargo will have to know. We won’t tell them how we came by the information. They’ve probably already taken the precaution of hiring extra guards or outriders.”

“If the hold-ups take place in the mountains, I assume the Virginia City police have no jurisdiction,” Ross said.

“They wouldn’t be capable of stopping a group of determined road agents anyhow,” Clemens stated. “Angie told me Tuttle was putting a gunman inside the coach, posing as a passenger, to make sure the coach stopped and the robbery succeeded.”

“Then I think there should be someone inside to nullify that gunman,” Ross said.

“Yes, the Wells, Fargo office is only two doors from
the
Enterprise
,” Scrivener said. “I’ll go down there and alert the agent tonight.”

“I’ll go with you,” Ross said. “Been meaning to pay my son a visit in Sacramento. Tomorrow’s Washoe Express will get me there in good time.”

Ten minutes later, the two men were standing outside the Wells, Fargo office. Scrivener rapped loudly on the wooden door. It was a long minute before they heard the bolt being slid back. The agent edged open the door, gun in hand. “Oh, it’s you, Martin.” He stepped back. “Come in. What can I do for you this time of night?”

“Got some news,” Scrivener said as the agent closed and bolted the door behind them.

Ross saw they’d interrupted the agent in the act of transferring gold ingots from his safe into the four iron-strapped green boxes for the trip west. The two-inch by three-inch by one-inch gold ingots, each weighing a pound, were stamped with the current value of $325.

“Go ahead and talk while I work,” the agent said.

Scrivener told him about the scheme Clemens had relayed from Angeline.

“Hell, everybody knows what we’re haulin’,” Agent Crawford said, wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s just a matter of being tough enough to hold onto it. You can assume that every stage in or out of here has treasure aboard.”

Ross watched, fascinated, as the agent stacked these small bricks into the boxes, half filling each of the four chests. He finished by piling the boxes the rest of the way to the top with slightly larger silver ingots. Other small packages and personal valuables overflowed a
nearby counter. A big canvas bag of mail leaned against the wall.

“Well, we thought we’d just tip you off, anyhow,” Scrivener said, turning toward the door. “I reckon you and Wells, Fargo know how to run your business.”

Crawford looked up. “Sorry, Martin. Didn’t mean to be short with you. I just had a tough day and it ain’t gonna be over for an hour or two yet.” He straightened up and stretched his back. “I appreciate the information, especially about the man inside the coach. Keep it to yourself, but we got extra outriders assigned to this run. We’re taking all the precautions we can.”

Ross wondered why the company didn’t load up individual coaches with treasure only, and send these specials across the mountains with guards as the sole occupants. But that might be just an advertisement for what the coaches carried. Perhaps it was better to have regular passengers. Wells, Fargo very likely had thought this problem through and decided on the best method of operation. In any event, Ross thought, it was no business of his.

“I need a round-trip ticket to Placerville on tomorrow’s stage,” Ross said.

Crawford gave him a curious look, but silently stopped what he was doing and went to his desk. “You know,” he said, as if reading Ross’s thoughts, “with every coach in and out of here carrying valuables, coin or bullion, it wouldn’t be practical to run only treasure coaches and not haul revenue-producing passengers, too.”

As Ross shelled out $45 in gold for the ticket, he could see the wisdom of that. He pocketed the ticket and glanced around the room, noting the light from the low-burning lamp reflecting dully off the gold bars. Ben
Holladay wanted to get his hands on this lucrative Pioneer Line that Wells, Fargo had owned since the beginning of the rush, five years earlier. The Comstock Lode generated so much business the company now ran eight coaches daily to and from California. As spring and summer came on and mountain travel became easier, this number was likely to increase.

“Thanks, gents,” Crawford said, as Ross unbolted the door and the two men stepped outside.

“How about a nightcap?” Scrivener suggested when they were on the street. “On me.”

“Sure.”

They retreated to Barnum’s.

“You know Frank Moody will be the driver on this run,” Scrivener said, when they were leaning on the bar.

“Wells, Fargo’s top man,” Ross agreed.

“Not only is he fearless, and a damned good shot, but he’s a natural on the box,” Scrivener continued. “He can turn a six-horse coach in the street with the team at full gallop, with every line apparently loose.”

“You’d best have another gin.” Ross grinned at him. “Maybe then you’ll sound more convincing than one of your editorials.”

“I’m sober as a temperance preacher,” Scrivener affirmed, owl-eyed. “God’s truth. If I hadn’t seen him do it, I wouldn’t believe it myself. He must have some mental communication with his horses. And the man knows every foot of the road between here and Placerville.”

Ross nodded, feeling more confident about this run.

Next morning, Ross basked in the warm sunshine as he stood, waiting for the stage to load. He pulled out his watch. Ten minutes until noon. His Navy Colt, freshly
loaded and capped, rested in his cross-draw holster under the flap of his corduroy jacket. A spare cylinder, also loaded and capped, was in his right-hand pocket. In addition, he carried a .32 pistol inside the breast pocket of his coat. Manufactured in Brooklyn by the Daniel Moore Company, the new revolver had a five-inch barrel and held seven rimfire cartridges. His small grip contained an extra shirt, razor, toothbrush, and socks, as well as extra cartridges, powder, shot, and caps.

But at the moment, his mind wasn’t on fighting or danger or robbery. It was on the fresh, soft May air and the warm sun. It was positively too nice a day for criminal activity. The benevolence of Nature mocked the whole idea.

Ross lounged against a porch post on the boardwalk across from the Wells, Fargo office and watched the flurry of activity. He savored the moment. Even the likely prospect of going up against armed robbers didn’t dampen his mellow mood. He pushed back his hat to feel the sun on his face.

Any onlooker wondering if this stage was carrying a lot of valuable bullion would’ve had their doubts erased by the sight of the cool-headed Frank Moody who was casually keeping an eye on the loading stage. He was the very picture of skill and confidence, wearing a gray, low-crowned hat, white linen duster over a brace of pistols, shiny black boots, flaring mustache, yellow calfskin gloves, and carrying his coiled whip.

Ross studied the crowd, hoping to pick out the plant among the passengers. But he soon gave up the attempt. Many of the people milling in the street had come to see others off. This was going to be a crowded coach. At least ten or eleven passengers, he estimated. That meant one or two would be riding topside with the extra guard. Several hatboxes went into the rear
boot, evidently the property of a couple of well-dressed lady passengers. He found himself wishing this would be an all-male soirée; he hated the idea of lead flying if women were in the way.

Four of the green wooden treasure boxes, measuring a foot by two feet, were carried from the Wells, Fargo office and loaded by the shotgun messenger and one of the extra guards. Each box was locked with a brass padlock. The men grunted as they heaved two boxes up and into the front boot under the driver’s feet. With great effort, they swung the other boxes into the rear boot. To all the men and women milling around the coach, it was obvious the boxes were filled with gold and silver ingots.

Almost time to get aboard. Ross took a business card of the Pioneer Line from his vest pocket. On the back of it was a list of the stops and the approximate distance in miles between each. From Virginia City, they’d go down the valley to Carson, then to Glenbrook, up the mountain to Lake Bigler, Yank’s, and descend the long grade to Strawberry Valley, about sixty-five miles from here. From that stop, it was on to Webster’s Riverside station, Sportsman’s Hall, and Placerville, where Ross would debark, spend the night, and return—provided he wasn’t wounded…or dead.

He slid the card back into his pocket and walked across the street to where the coach was rapidly filling. Two portly men in suits were squeezing in beside two women who were apparently traveling together. The Concord coach was never designed to hold that much blubber on one of its bench seats. Ross had to turn away to keep from laughing aloud at the sight of the two fat men squirming in beside the obviously irritated women whose well-filled skirts already occupied most of the seat.

Ross stood aside and waited for everyone else to board. He was in no hurry to be crammed inside with all that humanity for the rest of the day. Both front-and rear-facing seats were quickly taken, and the free-standing bench in the middle was fully occupied with three men. The coach rocked on its leather thorough braces as everyone struggled to find a comfortable seat. Ross knew, as last to board, he might have to ride on top. In fact, he was hoping for that very thing. Even the roof would be crowded, he realized. Besides the burly shotgun messenger who’d taken his seat on the left side of the box, one extra guard, carrying a Henry rifle, was climbing up to ride on top of the coach, among various small sacks and wrapped parcels lashed to the low hand rail rimming the top.

Inconspicuously lounging near their saddled horses, a half block away, were two armed outriders who would be trailing the coach.

“You going, mister?” the shotgun guard yelled down at him as Agent Crawford slammed the left-side door against the crush of bodies inside.

Ross was jarred out of his reverie. “Yeah.”

“Then you’d best get up top.”

Ross put a foot on a rear wheel hub and pulled himself up to the roof, sitting behind the second guard.

Finally, when all was ready, Frank Moody strolled to the right side of the coach, pulling on his yellow gloves. He glanced imperiously around, then swung lightly to the high seat, and laced the reins between his fingers. All eyes were on him, but he didn’t make a practice of whipping his team to a gallop on C Street just to make a grand exit. On the contrary, he took pride in starting his horses gently so the passengers were hardly aware they’d begun to roll. In Moody’s opinion, voiced to a reporter for the
Enterprise,
jack-rabbit starts were for
fools and beginners, and were hard on both animals and equipment. He preferred to save his team for the pull up mountain grades, or for outrunning road agents. His whip was likewise used sparingly, and usually snapped only near the ears of his leaders, if they began to lag.

Thus, six horses and the heavily loaded coach began to move as one, with no fuss, or shouting, or cracking of whip. Almost before Ross realized it, they were rolling, the buildings sliding by smoothly on either side, trace chains
jingling,
iron-bound wheels grinding over packed earth. Except for not having anything to lean back against, he much preferred to be up here where he had a fine view, plenty of fresh air and sunshine. He stretched out on his stomach, propping up on both elbows. The extra guard, who laconically chewed a wad of tobacco, sat, cross-legged, with the rifle spanning his lap.

They quickly reached Carson City, but stopped only for a bag of mail and a few small parcels the guard was able to tuck in around luggage in the boot.

Two hours later they were in the Sierras, where they stopped to change teams, without the driver leaving his seat, then were off again, winding along a ridge-top road that was dry, level, and hard-packed. Between the trees towering above the road, snow-capped peaks shone in the distance, with a deep blue sky in the background. The air was noticeably cooler, and Ross enjoyed every minute of it.

Every now and then, on a straight stretch of road, he glimpsed one of the outriders trailing the coach one hundred yards behind. As the miles rolled under their wheels, Ross began to wonder if the safety precautions were going to work and prevent the planned robbery. Surely, in daylight, with two armed guards
atop the coach and two more on horseback, no outlaws would chance being shot attempting a hold-up. Then he thought of the plant he couldn’t identify who rode inside the coach.

Near the crest of a hill, Moody slowed the team to pass three tall freight wagons; their ten-mule teams and drivers were bunched up in a turnout, apparently resting before they began the long descent northeast toward the Comstock. The wagons were piled high with pipes and mining gear. One of the other wagons carried boxes and barrels of flour, beans, whiskey, and ready-made clothing.

Five miles farther, they overtook another train of big freight wagons, the ox teams plodding westward. Moody rested his foot lightly on the brake and walked the lines up between his thumbs and forefingers, just enough to communicate with the leaders. While the bearded teamsters watched stolidly, Moody eased team and coach past them with hardly a foot to spare on the narrow road. Ross enjoyed watching the driver work. He was a master of his craft.

Seven miles beyond, the team trotted into a long, curving upgrade. A twenty-foot-tall bluff of vertical rock bounded the left side of the road. On the right, a thick stand of pines sloped off into a shallow ravine.

Moody subtly brought the tiring horses to a walk. “
Whoa!
” The driver’s right foot jammed against the brake lever. The team came to a stop just in time to avoid hitting a slender pine fallen from a rocky crevice across the road, blocking their way.

Two masked men with rifles leaped out from either side of the road.

“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.

“Hear tell you got four treasure boxes this trip,” one of the masked men said, laughing.

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 talkative 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.”

“Quit jawing and get to it!” the shorter of the two bandits growled.

“Shut up! I’m a man who enjoys his work,” the first one shot back. Then he motioned with his rifle. “Now the other box. Toss it off on the right side.”