West of Washoe (14 page)

Lacking identification in their pockets, the three dead robbers were placed in open wooden boxes and stood up in the window of a hardware store with a sign reading:

DO YOU KNOW THESE MEN?

In the two days the corpses faced C Street, no one came forward to identify them. The hardware owner and the local police began to assume the men were strangers in town. The police chief, Amos McClanahan, thought it very curious not one of the three carried a billfold, or any money, or a receipt of some kind. The fat man had a blue bandanna in his pocket, but that was all. It was almost as if the men were being purposely incognito, in the event they were killed or captured.

In the warm weather, the odor of decomposing bodies began to offend customers of the hardware, so Chief McClanahan paid a photographer to record images of the deceased on wet-plate negatives. Then the city hired an undertaker to bury the three in paupers’ graves just outside the fenced city cemetery.

The town council, more in the order of tying up loose ends and showing the outside world Virginia City was, indeed, a civilized place, offered a reward of $10 for each of the dead men who could be identified. This incentive worked. A day after the three were buried, two men who worked as swampers in the Knock-Em-Stiff Saloon hesitantly came forward to inspect the photographs in the police chief’s office. They agreed the names of the men were “Red” and Cyrus, and the fat man Ross had shot was a gambler and gunman known to the local outlaw element as “Bilious” Vance. The pair making the identification didn’t know two of the given names, but it was good enough to claim the reward, as the police weren’t particular and would now have something to carve into the wooden markers.

The shotgun guard who’d been killed in defense of the stage was another story. Jim Sessions was known
and loved by many in the town as a brave and honest man, as well as a good friend to all. Hats were passed in many saloons for donations to his widow. Several thousand dollars in silver and gold were collected to add to the Wells, Fargo award. Sessions’s body was carried to its resting place in a stylish black, glass-sided hearse pulled by four plumed horses. Hundreds joined the funeral procession that blocked traffic on C Street as it wound its way to the city cemetery where a graveside service was held.

After Sessions’s funeral, Crawford, the young Wells, Fargo agent, sought out Ross and offered him $100 for his role in thwarting the hold-up. Embarrassed, and publicity-shy, Ross declined. “First of all, I don’t want to become a target for revenge by drawing attention to myself,” he told the agent. “But most important, as a government employee, I’m not allowed to accept gifts.” This was only partially true, but gave him an excuse for turning down the offer.

Ross took advantage of the lull to catch up on his writing, and to soak his bruised heel in warm water every day to help it mend. His brief role as a gun guard for Martin Scrivener was certainly something in the past. He drove himself in a buggy to visit two of the larger, better-run mines for inspection tours. As a precaution, he carried matches and candles, a canteen of water, and his loaded .32 Moore in a shoulder holster. These inspection tours were routine and informative. With the figures of tons of ore mined, numbers of ounces of silver and gold milled, cast into bullion and shipped, Ross was able to form a good idea of the mineral wealth of the Comstock. That’s what he’d come here to do. As to the future potential of the region, no one knew. The ledges of metal-bearing ore could give out at any time, and some of the very deepest mines
had already begun to experience flooding. To keep the mines dry and producing, more capital would have to be invested in the huge Cornish pumps.

But, for now, in the early summer of 1864, Ross could write up a reasonably accurate report. He was also filling his daily journal with material as valuable to him as silver and gold.

When going about the town, Ross was now more circumspect. He remained acutely aware of everyone around him on the street. Each evening he still met with Martin Scrivener for supper and they shared information like two old friends and confidants. Neither of them could account for the unexpected silence from both Fossett and Tuttle.

“Could be your visit has Fossett cowed,” Scrivener said over supper in Barnum’s. “Your threat, combined with that arm wound.”

“I doubt it,” Ross replied. “On the surface, perhaps. But my impression of the man was the same as yours…he’s sneaky and will look for ways to hurt you or me when we’re least expecting it.”

“I think Fossett is just a small player in this larger plot involving Tuttle and Holladay I’m wasting ink on him,” the editor said.

“But you can’t go one step above and accuse a man like Holladay of criminal activity without at least some \\\ sort of proof,” Ross said. “With his connections, he could put the
Enterprise
out of business.”

Scrivener nodded, sipping his coffee. “Yeah. We gotta be a bit more careful with him. He’s ruthless, I hear.”

Just then a man in black coat and white shirt approached their table. “Mister Martin McNulty, also known as the Sierra Scrivener?”

Scrivener looked up at this formal greeting. “Yes?”

“My name is S.A. Hedder. I represent Mister Avery
Tuttle. He’s asked me to deliver the following message to you…because you’ve printed gross insults and lies about him in your newspaper, he has taken the greatest personal affront and demands satisfaction.”

Scrivener chuckled at the ridiculously formal manner. “I guess he wants me to print a retraction.”

The man slapped Scrivener lightly across the face with a pair of calfskin gloves. “No, sir. You are hereby challenged to meet Mister Tuttle on the field of honor at a place and time to be decided by me and your second. In the Nevada Territory, Navy Colts are the customary weapons.”

The color drained from the editor’s face. “What?”

“You, sir, have been challenged to a duel. Mister Tuttle assumes you are a gentleman and will accept.”

“Tell Tuttle he’s out of his mind. He can bring a lawsuit against the paper if he wants to, but dueling is illegal and has gone out of fashion everywhere except in the backward Southern states.”

“Mister Tuttle is from South Carolina, sir. I’ll tell him you said that.”

“Said what?” Sam Clemens had walked up just in time to overhear the last remark.

Scrivener still seemed stunned. “Who…or what…are you, again?”

The man drew himself up to his full height of at least six feet two. “I’m Spanger Arlo Hedder,” he replied. “Known as S.A. Hedder. That’s spelled with two Ds.”

“I don’t give a damn how it’s spelled!” Scrivener yelled, springing up. His chair
clattered
backward to the floor. Men at the bar and other diners looked to see what the commotion was about. The editor had fully recovered, and his eyes were blazing. “You can tell Tuttle to stick his dueling pistol in his mouth or anywhere
else convenient and blow out what brains he’s got. I’m not meeting him to fight any duel!”

Ross had never seen him so angry. He stole a glance at Clemens who’d approached the table in a jocular attitude, but now looked stricken.

“I’ll be acting as Mister Tuttle’s second in this affair,” Hedder repeated, unruffled. “Once you name a second, we can arrange further details.” He gave a formal half bow and started to withdraw.

But Clemens jumped in front of him, face reddening. “Hell, Tuttle’s so stupid he doesn’t even know who wrote those articles!”

Hedder drew himself up to his full height and looked down at the agitated reporter. “Who did, sir?” he asked.

“Well…I did…if you must know the truth of it.” He paused as if he’d gone too far, but wasn’t sure how to back out.

“I’m sorry, Mister…?”

“Clemens. Sam Clemens. A reporter for the
Enterprise.
” He hesitated, then recklessly plunged ahead. “I started all this with my editorial pieces about Fossett and later about Tuttle. Tuttle’s a damned fraud, trying to sell shares in that worthless Blue Hole Mine. And Fossett got himself shot trying to burn down our newspaper office. A pair of low-down crooks! And I was the one who exposed them. Me! Not him!” He jabbed a finger at Scrivener.

“Is that a fact?” Hedder said with cold skepticism. He glanced at Scrivener as if for confirmation, but the editor never changed expression. “Then I’ll see if Mister Tuttle would consider extending his challenge to you, instead.”

“You’re damned right! Martin Scrivener is too good a man to be dirtying his hands with the likes of Tuttle or Fossett.”

Hedder inclined his head slightly and strode away toward the door.

A hush had fallen over the crowd of customers as all heads were turned in the direction of the drama. As soon as the door slammed behind Hedder, spontaneous applause erupted from the spectators.

“Well, Sam,” Scrivener said quietly, picking up his overturned chair, “I don’t really need anyone to fight my battles, but you’ve jumped right into the hot chili with this one.”

“Three more hold-ups in two days!” Scrivener said to Ross as they sat in the
Enterprise
office. “And these were successful. Wells, Fargo took some pretty good hits.” He leaned back in his chair. “The robbers killed the guard and one of the passengers who resisted being relieved of his watch.” He rose from his chair and paced around the desk, looking out the door into the pressroom. “The only reason the driver wasn’t shot on this last job was because he saw it coming, poured a half bottle of whiskey over his head, and slumped down in his seat, pretending to be drunk. They left him alone, figuring he was harmless.”

“I was told one of the mine owners cast his silver shipment in one big silver ingot weighing nearly three hundred pounds so the robbers couldn’t lift it or carry it away on horseback,” Ross said.

Scrivener smiled grimly. “Next thing you know, the road agents will be bringing saws to cut up the ingots, and pack mules to carry off the pieces. They’re starting to act as if Wells, Fargo is hauling treasure for their convenience. At least the robbers can’t bring a wagon, or they’d have to stick to the roads in the mountains.”

“Since that robbery attempt the day I was aboard, these outlaws are gunning down everyone who gets in their way. And they’re scouting to ambush the outriders, too. This has become an all-out war.”

“The stakes are high…ownership of the Pioneer Stage Line. That earns big money.”

Ross tipped his straight chair back on two legs and leaned against the office wall. “Any more tips from Angeline Champeaux?”

“Nope. She told Clemens that Tuttle hasn’t been back to see her. Probably doesn’t want to take a chance on getting drunk again and blabbing everything he knows.”

“Or he has other things on his mind…like dueling. Since we haven’t heard from him or that officious Hedder in the past two days, maybe Tuttle’s trying to decide which of you two he wants to take on.”

“Speaking of which, Clemens has been wound tighter than an eight-day clock. Haven’t had much work out of him since that little scene at Barnum’s the other night.”

“In spite of what you said, would you go through with a duel?” Ross asked.

Scrivener shook his head. “No. I’m older and wiser now. The public loves duels for entertainment, but they prove nothing. I’m not afraid of Tuttle, if that’s what you’re asking. As I told you before, I engaged in two affairs of honor in my younger days. Killed a man the first time…a young hothead who was obsessed with defending a woman’s honor. The second time, I was outshot and survived with a flesh wound. Could have been killed, but my opponent blooded me and that provided him enough satisfaction.” He rolled up the left sleeve of his white shirt to expose a three-inch long scar where no hair grew on his forearm. “I’d say positively that Clemens has never engaged in a duel. He’s from a border state where differences are still settled that way now and then, but, in my opinion, he’s just not the type. Too progressive in his thinking. Not hidebound by tradition, I’d guess.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything until circumstances
forced me to, but Clemens confided to me earlier he was responsible for getting you into that affray with Fossett. Sam said he planned to challenge Fossett first to keep him from hurting you. He thinks an awful lot of you. But Sam also said he couldn’t hit the wall of a privy if he was standing inside it.”

“I’m a good pistol shot,” Scrivener said reflectively. “Maybe I should coach him, just in case he’s the one Tuttle picks.”

“Could be Tuttle has dropped the whole notion since you haven’t heard anything from him in two days.”

Scrivener nodded. “Possibly. I don’t know Tuttle, so I can’t hazard a guess.” He looked at Ross. “You know, it’s a helluva thing for you to come into town on business, and wind up taking on other men’s troubles.”

“Be a mighty lonely world if everyone kept to himself,” Ross said.

“I feel I’ve known you more than a few weeks.”

“And I, you.”

They grinned at each other.

“You about to wind up your mine inspections?” Scrivener asked.

“Getting close. But I don’t have to leave as soon as I’m done.”

“Going to stretch that government
per diem?
”

“No. I’ll go on my own time and pay my own expenses for a while. I can’t just leave on the stage and not find out how all this pans out.”

“It might be months or years before there’s any resolution.”

“Not if I’m any judge.”

“Well, hang around as long as you like. I’m certainly glad for your company.”

“Thanks.”

“Yep. When you’re gone, I won’t have anybody left to confide in.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so immune to gold fever as you,” Ross said. “And I should know, because I’m that way myself.”

Scrivener chuckled. “What are we doing here, then?”

“Observing all these other fools who’re silver mad…and reporting on them.”

“You’re right. I’ll probably be still sitting here, collecting my fifty dollars a week salary when the mines are played out and most of the town deserted.”

“Let’s not anticipate old age.”

“Sometimes it’s good to reflect on the past and anticipate the future…just in case the future is a lot shorter.”

A knock on the open doorway interrupted.

Ross had a sudden sinking sensation when he looked up to see S.A. Hedder, wearing a black frock coat and white shirt. The man had the appearance of a tall, lean undertaker.

“Where is Mister Clemens?” Hedder asked in answer to Scrivener’s inquiring look.

“He’d better be out gathering the news. He has a column to fill,” the editor said briskly. “He might be a couple doors down at the Wells, Fargo office, getting the lowdown on that latest hold-up.”

“Thank you.” The man nodded and backed out the door with a stiff formality.

“Put a scythe in his hands and he’d look like the Grim Reaper,” Ross said, mainly to distract the black thoughts he knew were in Scrivener’s mind at the moment.

“I was afraid of that,” the editor said. “Let’s go find Clemens. He’s going to need a drink after Hedder issues that challenge.” He reached for his coat.

But Clemens was nowhere to be found. They started
at the Wells, Fargo office—where the agent said Sam had been earlier—and worked their way along C Street, before discovering him at the bar in the Blind Mule.

The look on his face told Ross what he needed to know.

“Hedder found you, then?” Scrivener said as they approached the bar. Evidently from long habit, the bartender slid a glass and gin bottle in front of the editor.

“Yeah. It’s set for tomorrow morning at nine.”

“Where?”

“A patch of desert just past the Blue Hole Mine.”

“You actually going through with it?” Scrivener asked.

“Not if there’s any way I can weasel out.”

Scrivener poured himself a drink. “I’m appointing myself your official coach, adviser, trainer…and your second if you need one.”

“Thanks. It might be your last official function as far as Sam Clemens is concerned…unless you plan to be a pallbearer, too.”

“Don’t worry about it. If you decide to refuse the challenge, nobody will think the worse of you for it. It’s an archaic practice that should be outlawed in any decent society.”

“Washoe is
not
a decent society, and it
is
outlawed,” Clemens said morosely.

Ross had to turn away to keep his smile from showing.

Scrivener sipped his gin. “While you’re trying to make up your mind, let me get my buggy and we’ll go out into the desert. I’ll show you a few tricks of marksmanship. You can practice a little under the eye of an expert.”

“Not feeling up to it at the moment,” Clemens said, smoothing his mustache and tipping his beer glass.

“Then we’ll go out in the morning an hour beforehand and practice.”

“All right,” Clemens said without enthusiasm. “Right now, I have to go and write up my piece about that stage robbery.”

Ross and Scrivener left Clemens to brood in his beer.

A little before 8:00 the next morning, the three men rode down into a swale of open ground beyond the Blue Hole, where the duel was to take place. It was a desolate piece of desert behind huge mounds of spoil where only a few clumps of sage managed to survive. Tin cans littered the ground and Ross picked up an empty one-gallon molasses bucket. He laid a board across the top of a broken-sided wooden flour barrel and set the molasses can on top. It approximated a short, fat human target.

“All right, I want to check your hand-eye co-ordination,” Scrivener said, instructing his reporter to blaze away with his .36 Colt at a distance of twenty paces. For several seconds, the quiet morning air was blasted with the roar of gunfire. True to Clemens’s prediction, the lead balls would have been deadly to man or beast standing anywhere except directly behind or directly in front of the shooter.

In the following silence, the roar of gunfire was heard from the gully just beyond the piles of tailings. They looked at each other.

“Sounds like Tuttle’s getting in a little practice, too,” Scrivener said. “He’ll be along directly.”

Ross noted Clemens’s normally ruddy complexion had taken on a pale hue in the morning light.

The editor produced another loaded cylinder from his pocket and handed it over. “Here. Give me the empty and I’ll have Ross reload it.”

Clemens broke the pistol apart, removed the spent cylinder, and inserted the freshly charged one.

“Let’s try it again. This time, think of the barrel of the gun as your finger. Just point the finger from waist level at the can. Better yet, go for the hogshead beneath it, like that was Tuttle’s body.”

The Colt erupted three times with the same results.

“Hold it!” Scrivener stepped forward and took the Colt. “Since this is a duel, and not the usual gunfight, you’ll be standing sideways, arm extended, aiming down the barrel.” He handed back the revolver. “Cock it, line up the hogshead through the notch in the hammer with the little bead on the end of the barrel.”

Clemens, looking frustrated, tried, but missed the flour hogshead by six feet. Arm fully extended, he cocked and fired again. The gun roared and spat a tongue of flame. The slug kicked up dirt ten yards beyond the target.

“Lemme see that thing,” Scrivener said, taking the gun from Clemens’s hand. “Might have to work on that front sight. I have to aim low with my own Colt to be on target.”

The uproar was finally too much for a sage hen hidden in a clump of brush. With a
thrumming
of wings, she flashed upward. Scrivener snapped off a shot as the bird took flight. The hen flopped into the dust, head missing.

Scrivener handed the smoking Colt back to a wide-eyed Clemens.

Just then a one-horse buggy rolled over the rise and Hedder reined to a stop.

“Nice shot, Sam,” Scrivener said, indicating the grouse that still thrashed spasmodically forty feet away.

Hedder’s mouth opened and closed twice. “Did you…the head…?” He looked from the dead bird
back to Clemens, who quickly caught on and blew wispy smoke from the end of his weapon. “I’m still a little rusty,” he said to Scrivener. Then he turned to the new arrival in the buggy. “Ah…Mister Hedder, good to see you. You know Martin Scrivener, I believe. He’ll act as my second. We’re about ready, but it lacks twenty minutes to the hour yet,” he said, shoving the pistol back into its holster.

Without a word, the tall man snapped the reins over the back of his horse, pulled him around, rode over the rise of ground, and disappeared.

Clemens could hardly contain himself until Hedder was out of earshot. Then he whooped and hollered and the three men folded up with laughter.

“As the reputed best shot in Washoe,” Clemens gasped, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, “I’m buying lunch.”