West of Washoe (15 page)

“Martin, I can’t thank you enough,” Clemens said, gripping the editor’s hand as they stood on the boardwalk in front of the
Enterprise
office at twilight that evening. “You’ve been like a father to me.”

“Sam, why don’t you stay? I’m sure we can work this out, somehow,” Scrivener said.

Ross was trying to remain inconspicuous several feet away, but was acting as look-out for the approach of the police chief, Amos McClanahan, who was reported to be on his way to arrest Clemens for illegal dueling.

“Maybe it’s meant to be,” Clemens said, picking up his leather grip and eyeing the stagecoach across the street through the gathering dusk. “I’ve been here long enough. Just needed something to kick my ass out of town so I can get on with the rest of my life.”

The men were silent for a few seconds. Then Clemens said: “I can’t believe that son-of-a-bitch, Tuttle, slipped the word to the authorities I was going to fight a duel with some unknown man this morning. Why in hell would they enforce a law against dueling, when murder goes unsolved every day?”

“This is the territorial governor’s doing,” Scrivener said. “The new law against dueling hasn’t been tested yet, but a conviction for even issuing a challenge carries a two-year prison sentence.” He turned to look down the street. “Since your brother Orion used to be the governor’s secretary, he was able to buy you a few
hours of time. But if you’re not out of town on the eight-thirty stage tonight, the police chief, acting for the governor, has been ordered to arrest you.”

“What about you? You were my second.”

“I know a couple of choice personal tidbits about the governor that will appear in my editorial column if I’m bothered by him or his minions. In the event of my arrest, the associate editor is instructed to remove the editorial from my safe and set it in type. I don’t think the governor will risk ruining his political career just to see me go to jail for abetting a duel. Maybe if I sent word to him that I’d run it unless you’re allowed to stay, then…”

“No, no. I can’t allow you to use your only bargaining chip for me,” Clemens said. “You need to save it for something really important. In the meantime, I’m not sticking around to go to prison for something I had no intention of following through with.”

“You’ll be back, won’t you?” Scrivener asked.

“Sure will, after things cool down, or the governor is replaced. But I need to try my luck in San Francisco first.”

“If things don’t work out, you’ve always got a job here as long as I’m editor.”

“Thanks. Say good bye to Angeline for me, will you? Damn! Wish I’d progressed beyond a brother-sister relationship with her.”

The driver slammed one of the stage doors, and climbed to the box.

“I better go,” Clemens said. He turned and gripped Ross’s hand in silent farewell, then dashed across the street toward the stage, disappearing into the gloom.

A minute later the stage jerked into motion and rattled down the street and disappeared around a corner.

Scrivener let out a sigh. “That’s one more thing I have against those bastards at the Blue Hole Mine,” he said. “They cost me a good reporter and friend.”

“Just in time,” Ross said. “Here comes McClanahan.” The beefy Irishman came swinging down the sidewalk, unlit cigar jutting from beneath his salt-and-pepper handlebar mustache.

“If he wasn’t the law, and a good deal bigger than I am, I’d bust him right in the chops,” Scrivener growled.

“A sure way to get thrown in jail, in spite of your hold over the governor.”

“I think maybe Fossett and Tuttle cooked up this whole thing about a duel just to get me jailed and out of the way. Then Clemens jumped in and fouled up their plans.”

“If that’s the case, the challenge would have been issued to you…not to Clemens.”

“You’ve got a point.” Scrivener shook his head, gnawing at the corner of his mustache.

McClanahan came up, brass buttons on his blue uniform gleaming in the lamplight from the saloon across the street. “Martin, did your man, Clemens, get on that stage that just left?”

“Sure did,” Scrivener said through clenched teeth. “Now that we’re rid of one more dangerous criminal, you’ll be free to turn your law enforcement talents to solving a few of the murders that happen in this town every day.”

“Don’t be gettin’ smart with your mouth,” the chief said, “or you’ll be eatin’ jail grub with it before the day’s out.”

“Come on, Ross, I need a drink and a good cigar.”

Ross joined the editor as he hopped across the street on a series of planks partially sunk in mud. They
reached the opposite sidewalk and strode off toward the Blind Mule.

“Well, I wish Sam would’ve at least stopped to tell me good bye,” Angeline said, looking petulant. She moved out of earshot of everyone except Ross and Scrivener.

“He was in a big rush to wind up his affairs,” Scrivener explained. “The law was on his tail.” He quickly outlined the situation.

“They’d arrest him for taking target practice in the desert?” she asked, arching her lovely brows.

“He was accused of dueling, or planning a duel…or something,” Scrivener said. “It’s a long story. Mostly about politics and vengeance.” When Scrivener tried to explain this to her, it sounded completely ridiculous. “He was really upset,” Scrivener continued, evidently trying to soften the blow. “He thinks an awful lot of you and was afraid he’d become too emotional if he faced you himself. But he did promise to come back. Said he’d try his luck at newspapering in San Francisco. After nearly two years on the
Enterprise
he felt he was in a rut. This was the spur he needed to move on and seek his fortune.”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” she said, cutting through the sham. “The least he could’ve done was come by and give me a peck on the cheek.”

“He would’ve liked to do a lot more than that,” Ross said, then immediately wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

She heaved a great sigh, nearly popping out of the top of her low-cut dress and distracting Ross, who had to step back and pretend not to notice.

“He was one of my best friends,” she lamented. “And one of the few men I could completely trust. I told him all my secrets, and knew he wouldn’t repeat them unless I gave him permission.”

“I know. We’re all going to miss him.” Scrivener lowered his voice. “That information about the stage robbery you passed along to him a week ago helped stop the robbers from getting away with it.”

She nodded. “I was only trying to help out. I haven’t seen Avery Tuttle since.”

“He’s the one who put the law on Sam.”

“I don’t think I could stand to look at Tuttle again without spitting in his eye,” she said, glancing around, as if she expected to see him in the room. “I’m off duty and don’t have an appointment tonight,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. “I could sure use a drink.”

“I’m buying,” Scrivener said.

Angeline ordered a sweet sherry, Scrivener his usual gin, and Ross a beer.

“You don’t have to go to work tonight, and I’m buying,” the editor said to Ross. “Why don’t you order something stronger?”

“In my wild youth, hard liquor had its way with me,” Ross said. “We carried on a love affair for a time, but I found out shortly I didn’t have the stamina to keep up with it. Old tangle-foot sometimes loosed the tiger in me, sometimes Don Juan, and sometimes the court jester, but I had no control over any of them. Finally got wise enough to break off the affair and I’ve stuck to beer ever since.”

Scrivener nodded. “Not every man can learn from experience. Most of us continue to repeat the same mistakes over and over.”

At that moment, in the tack room of a stable located between Virginia City and Carson City, Ben Holladay was convening a meeting with Avery Tuttle and Frank Fossett.

“I’ll be brief,” Holladay said, turning up the wick of the overhead lamp.

Fossett held his breath, hoping this impromptu meeting didn’t concern him directly. At least it wasn’t a big inconvenience for him to be called away from a late supper, since he lived only a mile away. Holladay’s stable was better than Avery’s mansion with all its finery, anyway. The Overland Stage Line connected Virginia City to points east and north. The horses and mules for that line were housed here.

“I want to let you know, after that disastrous hold-up a week or so ago, our boys have pulled off more than a dozen successful robberies of Wells, Fargo coaches. One we hit wasn’t carrying anything much, but that’s rare. Nearly every coach to or from Washoe west across the mountains has valuable cargo aboard. I make sure some of the treasure is being shipped by my stand-ins.” He stood with feet wide spread and hands behind his back. “Wells, Fargo isn’t ready to crack yet, but I’m sure they’re having to subsidize the Pioneer Stage Line with profits from their banking operation. It won’t be long now before they’ll be more than happy to accept an offer from me to relieve them of that money-losing line.” He looked directly at Tuttle with his beady-eyed stare. “When we met before, that man Ross…”

“Gilbert Ross,” Avery said. “The mine inspector.”

“Yes, yes. Have you heard any more from him?”

Avery hesitated, then said: “He killed two of your three men who died in that aborted hold-up attempt several days back. He was only a passenger, but he’s mighty handy with a gun. The newspapers and Wells, Fargo tried to make a hero of him.”

Holladay’s face suffused nearly purple in the lamplight. He turned away and silently paced the small room.

“But he’s out of the picture now,” Tuttle hastened to
add. “The
Enterprise
ran a story about Ross’s experience down in the Blue Hole, and his claim the mine was salted. But nobody took any note of it. The mine’s stock has continued to rise.” He expanded his chest, sucking in his paunch. “In fact, we sold two big chunks of stock to British investors.”

“I know that,” Holladay snapped. He paused. “I’ve brought in a gunman I call The Enforcer.” He paused again to stare at them.

Fossett looked down at his boots. He was becoming very bored with these dramatic pauses. If the man had something to tell them, why didn’t he just come out with it?

“I want you to meet him.” He reached for the door latch. “Don’t try to talk to him. He’s a man of…
unusual
personal traits. And he’s entirely devoted to me. He’ll immediately obey any order I give.” A grim smile stretched his lips. “He’s more like a trained timber wolf than a man.”

Holladay swung open the door and a lean man glided into the room.

Fossett felt a shiver go up his back.

“Gents, this here is Billy Joe Slater.”

The newcomer stared blankly at them without acknowledging the introduction in any way. In his left hand he held a hat studded with silver conchos.

Fossett, who was accustomed to judging men at a moment’s meeting, saw a man about thirty-five with black hair and brows, well-groomed nails, hands that had probably not done a day’s work in years. The upper part of his face appeared wind-burned, but the lower part was pale with a trace of the blue-black shadow of his recently shaved beard. He wore a Colt in a black holster. But it was the eyes that held Fossett’s interest. They were flat, dead orbs that looked upon the world with no
more animation than if he were some sort of zombie. They seemed to have no intelligence behind them. Except that the eyes were not slitted like a cat’s, the man resembled a black panther, trained to kill on command. This impression was enhanced when the lean assassin glided, cat-like, out the door.

“Keep watch outside until we’re finished,” Holladay said. He latched the door and turned back to them. “He’s a deadly marksman with a rifle as well as a Colt. When both guards and drivers begin dying during our hold-ups, Wells, Fargo will have trouble finding good replacements. It won’t be long before the Pioneer Line is mine.” He reached for the door latch. “That’s all for now. I’ll get word to you if I need you.”

The three men filed out into the darkness.

So, Holladay had a killer attack wolf on a leash, Fossett thought. Slater appeared to have some inhuman quality. Maybe some kind of crazy who’d kill on command. Fossett began to shiver, and hid the fact by easing his injured arm back into its sling. He knew about Tuttle’s
faux pas
of bragging to his high-priced prostitute concerning plans to rob the first big shipment—plans that had failed because of his loose talk. Tuttle threatened death to Fossett if he ever told Holladay. Although the damage was already done, a desperate Tuttle swore he’d never touch another drop of liquor. Instead, he distracted himself with trying to get Martin Scrivener and his reporter, Clemens, in trouble with the law. Fossett wasn’t too sure what had happened, but somehow Clemens had been forced to leave town, while Scrivener still occupied the editor’s chair, as sassy as ever.

Instead of being afraid of Tuttle, Fossett had taunted him. “You won’t be able to do anything to me, if I do tell Holladay,” he’d said. “You’ll be too busy picking out your burial suit. Hope I’m in your will.” He’d laughed
in Tuttle’s face. The older mine owner’s cherubic complexion had suffused a bright red. From that moment on, he and Tuttle had hardly spoken.

Fossett had gradually come to the conclusion that whatever money he was to be paid by Tuttle and Holladay, the risk in continuing to work for them might be too great. It wasn’t worth dying for. Yet, as a one-third owner of the fraudulent Blue Hole Mine, he wasn’t too sure how to extricate himself from the clutches of these plotters. When he’d first entered into this, he was not averse to taking money under false pretenses, but things had gotten considerably more serious. Armed robbery of hundreds of thousands of dollars, innocent people killed, an assassin hired deliberately to murder stage drivers and guards—he began to wonder where it would all end. Even if he wasn’t killed, he could very likely find himself spending the rest of his life in prison, or having his trachea tweaked on the gallows. He was glad he’d eaten supper before he came; he’d have trouble explaining to his wife why he had no appetite.

Before dawn the next morning, Jacob Sturm died. The former miner finally succumbed to the silicosis that had ravaged his lungs. Gil Ross found out when he stopped at the boarding house on his way to breakfast in town. He wanted to have a word with Sturm’s roommate, John Rucker.

Rucker opened the door to Ross’s knock, and stepped back, mutely gesturing at the pale figure on the bunk. Ross had seen the hearse outside, and recognized the lean undertaker, Cyrus Blackstone, who was unrolling a large piece of white canvas and spreading it on a stretcher beside the bed.

“Help me lift him,” Blackstone said, and he and Rucker gently moved the body from the bed to the stretcher on the floor.

Ross took a long, last look at the face of a man he’d never known in full vigor of life. The anguished expression was gone; he’d ceased to struggle for breath, and the seamed face with the gray stubble had relaxed in his last sleep.

Ross moved out of the way for Blackstone to wrap the canvas over the ravaged body and fasten it to hooks on the sides of the stretcher. Then the undertaker and Rucker, whose eyes were moist, carried him outside and slid the stretcher into the open back doors of the tall, glass-sided hearse.

“I have two others ahead of him, but I should have
his body ready by late this afternoon,” Blackstone said to Rucker as he closed and fastened the doors.

Rucker nodded, and went back inside.

“Are you the only undertaker in town?” Ross asked the black-coated man who was swinging up to his high perch on the driver’s seat.

“I’m it.”

“How do you keep up with all the deaths?”

“Hear tell another man is bringing his practice over from Sacramento. Normally I wouldn’t welcome competition, but this time I can hardly wait. If business keeps booming like it’s been for the past months, I’m liable to become one of my own customers.” He snapped the reins and his team started, turning the corner of the building, drawing the hearse toward the street.

Ross went back inside and found Rucker sitting on a chair, elbows on knees, head in his hands. Ross put a consoling hand on the man’s broad back.

Rucker looked up. “I’ve known Jake for close onto twelve years. I’m sure gonna miss him…” His voice broke and he stopped.

Ross considered uttering some platitude about the man being relieved from his suffering, but decided against it. Rucker knew all that, and would hear it from others. Theirs was a hard life that didn’t make for longevity. “Any news from Union Hall?” he asked.

Rucker nodded. “A strike vote set for tonight.”

“A strike vote?”

“Only against the Blue Hole. We’ve had enough of Tuttle. It won’t really be a strike because there’s nothing to negotiate. Besides his breaking the contract in regard to working conditions, the mine is worthless and our men know it. We’ll quit him cold. He’ll have to
shut down, because no replacement workers will buck the union.”

“Won’t that throw a lot of miners out of work?”

Rucker shook his head. “There’s a big demand for experienced miners on the Comstock.”

Ross silently absorbed this news. When word got out of the union’s action, the price of Blue Hole stock would drop to nothing. Tuttle and Fossett might be able to sell out dirt cheap to some speculator who would rake through the tailings, or try to rediscover some ledge or vein that was missed.

Ross drew a deep breath. Virginia City and Gold Hill existed on hope and speculation. Regardless of how much precious metal was actually within these mountains, the whole Washoe area was sustained on delusion. Without imagination and deception, this place would be only a tenth its size.

“You think the outcome of the union vote is a sure thing?” Ross asked.

“No doubt about it. I expect it to be unanimous. The vote is only to make it official.”

“Do you mind if I alert Martin Scrivener at the
Enterprise?
He can write an article for tomorrow morning’s edition. The paper won’t hit the street until a few hours after the vote.”

“Good idea,” Rucker said. “By the way, I saw that piece a few days ago about what Gunderson did to you in the Blue Hole.” He shook his head. “Can’t blame you for pulling a gun on a couple of the boys and making them take you to the hoist. Getting lost down there can make a man panic. Happened to me once when I was younger.”

“I wouldn’t have shot them.”

“Figured as much from what they told me. You fired
to miss and scare ’em. You picked up a few salted ore samples, too, which proves what Jake discovered.”

“Yeah. The ore is still in Scrivener’s office safe. But that revelation didn’t do anything except make the stock price rise.”

“Probably because the news didn’t get beyond Washoe,” Rucker said. “I don’t know much about the business end of mining, but most of that stock is likely sold in other parts of the country.”

“Delusion, trickery, lies,” Ross said, “keep it all afloat.” He shook his head. “A little truth now and then would be refreshing.” He thrust out a hand to Rucker who gripped it. “I’ll be on my way, then. I didn’t know Jacob Sturm long, but he seemed like a fine, honest man. I’ll see you at the funeral.”

The miners voted to walk off the job at the Blue Hole, and the mine was deserted two days later when they all attended Jacob Sturm’s modest funeral. Ross and Scrivener were there as well. The minister held a moving graveside service that had Ross thinking of his own mortality.

Afterward, he and Scrivener left the cemetery with the dispersing crowd, and walked back to town in the hot June sun. Ross decided he didn’t need any morose thoughts on such a beautiful summer day. He inhaled a deep breath of the dry, invigorating air that carried a hint of sage.

“You found any more good arrowheads?” Ross asked to divert his own thinking.

“Haven’t had time to do any hunting lately,” Scrivener said. “But I need to make time. Life isn’t just about work.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go with you.”

“You’re welcome. Two pairs of eyes are better than one. Especially since mine are starting to need spectacles.”

“Reading too much agate type by lamplight,” Ross said. “You know, I’m a pretty fair proofreader. Why don’t I come down this evening, and help you. Maybe you can finish early and go home to bed. Then we’ll do a little arrowhead scouting tomorrow around midday.”

“How much do you charge for your services?” Scrivener asked with a slight smile.

“Only good company.”

“You work cheap. Come on down to the office later. If we skip supper, we can probably be out of there by two in the morning.”

The wind had begun to pick up. Ross squinted and averted his face from a dust devil cavorting across the sagebrush flat. “
Whew!
”

“About time for one of our famous Washoe zephyrs,” Scrivener said, holding onto his hat.

“I remember those from the first time I was here…mountains tearing the west wind apart and sending it tumbling down this side like an invisible waterfall. Scatters stuff in every direction.”

“Even buildings.”

The west wind from the Pacific continued to blow the rest of the day, increasing in velocity, pouring down the eastern slope of the Sierras, tumbling great, heavy globs of air into the valleys below as if it were something that could be seen as well as felt.

“Somehow we’ve missed the Washoe zephyr since you’ve been in town,” Scrivener remarked as he and Ross stood at the front door of the
Enterprise
office and looked out at the chaos on C Street.

“Zephyr?” Ross said. “Doesn’t that word mean a light, gentle breeze?”

“Folks around here are given to irony.”

“So I shouldn’t be surprised if I see a tin roof, or an iron stove or a mule go flying overhead.”

“Exactly.”

They stepped back into the doorway as an empty bucket went
clattering
and
banging
along the street. A man’s slouch hat flattened itself against the tall glass window of the
Enterprise
office, then was snatched away by a gust and blown under the wheels of a wagon.

“A certain way the wind whips around usually deposits lots of hats in a gulch back of town. After a zephyr, the Digger Indians go down there and harvest as many as they can carry. Their kids show up on the streets wearing two or three at a time. Adults, too.”

Everything that wasn’t indoors or securely fastened was being shifted to another location. The air was full of handbills ripped from walls and posts; playing cards fluttered like falling leaves. The
clatter
of loose objects punctuated the roar of wind moaning around corners of buildings.

An alert pedestrian dived into the dirt street to avoid a green shutter sailing toward his head. The shutter missed him and struck a draft horse a glancing blow. The startled animal lunged sideways against his harness mate and the two of them, along with the wagon they were hauling, charged up onto the boardwalk, tearing down a support post. Part of the sidewalk roof collapsed, further spooking the horses that rushed back into the street, heedless of the shouts of the driver.

“A lot of free entertainment,” Ross commented as the men retreated to the office to finish their work. The compositors were nearly ready for the corrected proofs.

By the time the two men finished at 12:30 a.m., the
wind was a howling fury. What had gone before was only a warm-up.

They carried their hats in their hands as they left the office and started down C Street. There was no such thing as leaning into the wind, or bracing one’s feet as the rushing air pushed from behind. The gusts seemed to come from all directions at once, whipping dust into the eyes from a dried-up street. Fine sand stung Ross’s face; he held up his hat to shield himself from the buffeting. They made no effort to speak as they struggled toward the Blind Mule for a beer and a snack before heading to their boarding house.

Walking head down, Ross suddenly bumped shoulders with a woman coming the other direction. “S’cuse me, ma’am!” He backed up and looked. “Angeline!” he said, recognizing the beautiful face deep inside the hood of her cape.

“Hello, Gil. ‘Evening, Martin.”

In spite of the hour, she showed no signs of fatigue, no shadows under the eyes. But then, Ross realized, she’d probably slept a good portion of the day. Like the editor, her work was afternoon and into the night.

“Where’re you going?” Scrivener shouted above the roar of the wind.

“Home to my hotel room!”

“Would you like an escort?” the editor offered.

“I don’t want to take you gentlemen away from anything important.”

“We just finished work. Come on, we’ll walk with you.”

They all turned and started back in the direction of the newspaper office, one of the men on either side of her.

It was easy for Ross to forget what she did for a living. Where he came from, every female was treated
as a lady by the men—if not by many of the disapproving women. In any case, he thought, it wasn’t his job to judge anyone. She’d been most valuable in helping prevent the loss of a big shipment of treasure, by alerting Clemens to the information Avery Tuttle had given her.

All three of them had to stop suddenly and turn their backs to a strong gust. A canvas cover tore loose from a wagonload of furniture and went sailing over their heads.

“This wind just wears me out!” Angeline shouted above the uproar.

They were beyond the
Enterprise
office and less than a block from her hotel when they heard a muffled
boom
and felt the ground tremble.

“They must be blasting pretty close to the surface!” Scrivener said.

“That was the noise of thunder from that awning flapping!” Ross said, pointing to the whipping canvas above a store front.

“No, I felt a concussion!” Scrivener said, stopping to look carefully around at the buildings on the street. He bumped Ross’s arm and pointed. They stood at the entrance to a narrow alleyway between two buildings. Ross saw smoke drifting from a broken window in the alley. Wind whipped the smoke away as soon as it appeared.

He looked back at the editor. “The Wells, Fargo office!”

“The shutters are closed in front and I can’t see any lamplight through the cracks!” Scrivener said, looking up and down the imposing two-story brick structure.

“The office on the ground floor never closes!” Ross finished the thought.

“Let’s take a look! Stay here, Angeline!” the editor
said, nudging her up into the doorway of a closed store to shelter her from the worst of the wind.

Not knowing what to expect, but preparing for the worst, Ross pulled his Navy Colt and followed the editor to the front door of the Wells, Fargo office. With the roar of the wind in their ears, they could hear nothing else as they paused by the door. Ross carefully grasped the knob and turned. It was locked.

“Something wrong! Let’s try the back door!” Scrivener said.

They eased down the narrow alley to the broken window that was still leaking a little smoke. Ross paused and slid one eye around the edge of the broken pane. Someone was moving inside, but the light was so dim from a lamp on the floor he couldn’t make out what was going on. Then his eyes became accustomed to the dimness and he could tell the two big doors of the six-foot safe were standing open. Ross ducked beneath the window and grabbed Scrivener’s coattail as the editor was making for the rear of the building. “Lamp’s on the floor, I can smell burnt powder and the safe’s open!” he said.

“Did you see Agent Crawford?”

“Too dark to make out faces, but there’s more than one man inside! Looks like somebody cleaning out the safe!”

Hugging the wall, they moved a few feet farther. “Only two doors to this place and the front one is locked!” Scrivener said.

“Must be hauling the stuff out the back way where there’s no light from the street!”

The wind, deflecting between the buildings, whisked their words away. Scrivener put his mouth close to Ross’s ear. “Let’s take a look around back! Then send Angeline for the police!”

The Washoe zephyr was blowing over trash barrels, banging shutters, and creating such a cacophony, nothing else could be heard. Flattened to the ground, they wiggled along the gravelly earth to where they could peek between a rain barrel and the corner of the building. A low light emanated from the open back door, illuminating a tall-sided freight wagon, the eight-mule team shuffling nervously in the windstorm. Heavy boxes and bags were being handed out and piled into the wagon. Ross recalled payday at the mines was next week. Crawford usually received shipments of gold and silver coin from San Francisco for the mine supervisors to pay the men in specie.