West of Washoe (16 page)

Was this part of the Holladay operation to cripple Wells, Fargo, or some gang operating independently? Robbing the lone agent in the middle of the night was certainly less risky than stopping a stage on a mountain road and having to contend with armed guards, outriders, and possibly armed passengers. The only risk here was that the Wells, Fargo office was in the middle of town. But someone had wisely waited for the first good Washoe zephyr of the season to roar down the mountains and cover the noise of their blowing the safe.

Ross touched the editor’s side to get his attention, then pointed back to the street. Scrivener nodded. Ross would go have Angeline summon the law.

Just as he turned, Ross sensed movement behind him, then smelled a delicious lilac fragrance as Angeline dropped to her knees beside him. “I had to see!” she said breathlessly.

Before he could answer, Ross saw the outlines of two men silhouetted by lights from the street. They were cut off in the alley. A shuttered lantern suddenly flashed. “Hold it right there!”

Ross grabbed Angeline, rolled to his left, and fired
at the light. The lantern splattered and went out. Guns roared. Ross felt a bullet burn his left forearm. He fired twice more as fast as he could cock the hammer and pull the trigger. A man went down.

He was vaguely aware of shouts from behind the building and Scrivener’s gun roaring beside him. He had a fleeting thought for the safety of Angeline, but it was too late for any of them now. Guns were flashing and bullets hitting wooden walls and throwing up spurts of gravel. A lead slug
whined
off a brick wall. In the uncertain light, Ross could only see bulky figures moving, hear shouts above the wind. He pushed Angeline down against the wall.

Everything was happening at once, but it seemed time had slowed to a crawl, and each movement took a long time. He was on his hands and knees, firing, until his Colt was empty. He dropped it and reached under his coat for his smaller, .32 back-up pistol. Just as he yanked it from his inside pocket, something struck him on the side of the head. He saw an explosion of bright light and then—nothing.

Ross came close to consciousness—just close enough to feel himself being jostled and rolled on something hard. He was moving but, try as he might, he couldn’t break through the upper surface of wakefulness. As if in a dream, he couldn’t speak, nor could he move his arms and legs, and slipped back into the void.

What seemed a long time later, he opened his eyes. He was lying on his back in the dark, and was no longer moving. He put a hand to the side of his head and it came away sticky. A knot the size of a walnut had swollen above his temple. He recalled wearing his hat when he’d been struck, so was lucky the hat had taken some of the force from the blow. His head ached.

Where was he? He sniffed the faint odor of old grease. Without moving his head, he cut his eyes to one side and the other, which brought a sharp pain. He listened. No sound except the wind
rattling
and
banging
loose metal somewhere close. He tried rolling onto his side. Waves of nausea swept over him. He lay face down on the smooth, packed dirt that smelled of oil and manure.

He blinked a few times, took a deep breath, and pushed himself to a sitting position. Then he saw a slight movement nearby. Indirect, wavering candlelight revealed two bound figures a few feet away. He crawled closer and saw Martin Scrivener and Angeline Champeaux, both bound with arms at their sides, and gagged. He was relieved they were alive. If they’d been killed,
there would have been no need to tie them. Why hadn’t he been bound? Probably because he was unconscious. Had they been dumped here? Wherever
here
was. He rubbed a stinging burn on his left forearm. In the dim light he could see a long cut, but didn’t recall being shot. But he didn’t recall much of anything about that gun battle.

He worked the gags out of their mouths.

“Thank God,” Scrivener breathed. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake. See to Angeline.”

He began to loosen her ropes.

They rubbed their stiffened limbs until circulation was restored and they could stand.

Ross felt muzzy, and couldn’t seem to get his thoughts straight. “Where are we?”

With Angeline leaning on his arm, Scrivener walked stiffly to the open door and looked out.

Ross followed. “Appears we’re in a building housing the hoisting works of a mine,” he said. “You know this place, Martin?”

“No.”

Ross pulled a bandanna from his pocket and held it gingerly to the side of his head. “Are either of you hurt?”

“I don’t believe I am,” she answered, her voice shaking.

“No damage here,” Scrivener said. “But I can’t imagine why, with all that lead flying.”

“I think I hit one,” Ross said, speaking low and looking around. “And I’m pretty sure you did, too.”

“Did they just leave us here?” Angeline asked.

“If we’re lucky, they did,” Scrivener said.

“Maybe they knew we couldn’t see well enough to recognize anyone.”

“Only reason we’re still alive.”

“But how could they be sure?”

“Someone on the street must have heard all that shooting and yelling,” Scrivener said. “Probably went for the law. By now they’ve likely found the Wells, Fargo office looted.”

“What time is it, anyway?” Ross asked.

Scrivener pulled his pocket watch and held it close to his eyes. “Three thirty-five.”

“At least two hours until daylight,” Ross said. “If you can walk, let’s get out of here and see if we can find our way back to town. Gold Hill or Virginia City must be close by.”

“Nice of them to leave us a candle,” Angelina said, pulling the thick candle loose from the melted wax where it was stuck near a windlass. There was no horse or mule to run the windlass. The whole place gave off the stale air of abandonment.

“I wouldn’t be for taking that candle anywhere just yet, missy,” a strange voice said from the shadows beyond the platform.

Angeline jumped with a little cry, nearly dropping the candle. A chill ran up Ross’s back to the base of his neck and he automatically reached for his Colt, which wasn’t there. His heart began to pound and, with it, his head. A hand inside his coat confirmed that his .32 was gone as well.

He heard the ratcheting of a lever-action rifle being cocked. A man stepped into the candlelight. The illumination showed his face beneath the hat brim, and it was nobody Ross knew. If either of the others recognized him, they said nothing. The man was in need of a shave, a bath, and a square meal was Ross’s quick assessment. A hireling, no doubt.

A silence ensued, during which Ross felt his head throbbing. The cut had ceased to bleed, but he felt sure
the knot on his head was large enough to be seen through his hair.

“We’ll be heading back to town,” Scrivener said, apparently to break the tension of the silence as much as anything.

“No. My orders are to hold you here until the others come back.” He stepped to the empty door frame and looked out into the darkness.

“If you haven’t already collected your share, what makes you think they’re
coming
back?” Ross asked, taking a chance he might guess right.

“I’ve been paid,” the man said shortly.

Angeline dripped hot wax on the hard packed earth and stuck the candle in it. Lacking any chairs or boxes to sit on, all three sat down on the ground to wait. The man with the rifle yawned and leaned against the windlass, looking bored and sleepy. He didn’t seem to mind if they talked among themselves. Besides, the
rattling
of the tin building hid their words from him.

“I think this might be the Dead Broke Mine,” Scrivener said. “It’s a played-out mine the owners abandoned a few months back.”

“Appropriate name,” Ross said.

“Actually there’s probably rich ore under all the mountains in this vicinity, but the owners just ran out of money before they tapped into a ledge, so they had to give it up when they couldn’t find investors.”

An endless thirty minutes crawled by. The wind buffeted the hoisting works housing, rattling the loose tin siding. It created such a din that, at first, Ross didn’t hear the approaching hoof beats. A horse snorted, and the next second three men entered on foot, single file through the empty doorway. Frank Fossett led the parade, his arm still wrapped, but out of the sling. Then came blond, rosy-cheeked Avery Tuttle. He was followed
by a third man—a lean stranger who moved with an easy, cat-like grace, and stationed himself to one side, arms folded, looking bored. The only person missing was Ben Holladay. But the big boss would never dirty his hands on the small details of his grand scheme, although he must have known what was going on. He was the brains, the power, and the money behind it all.

“We brought you a spare horse,” Tuttle said to the guard with the rifle. “Git!”

The guard didn’t need a second invitation. He hustled out the door into the night and Ross heard him ride away.

Tuttle opened two of the shutters on the lantern he carried, and turned up the wick. Wherever they were, apparently he was not afraid of a light brighter than a candle being seen from the outside.

Ross and Scrivener had been disarmed. Whatever was about to happen, Ross would prefer firearms were involved, rather than the mine they were standing atop of. Just then a big, bearded man appeared in the doorway and moved forward into the light.

“Ah, Mister Holladay,” Tuttle said in a deferential tone.

“I’ll get to the point,” Holladay said, taking charge. “We’ll have a little trial right here.” He removed his stylish gray Stetson and stepped forward, still wearing his long riding duster. A diamond ring on his little finger sparkled in the lantern light. “You’ve been accused by the prosecuting attorney of attempting to wreck our operation tonight when you came on the scene at the wrong time. It was fortunate you fell into our hands, although you
did
shoot and wound three of my men. We couldn’t just kill you and leave your bodies in that alley. That would have created too much of a stir, even
in a town that has at least one or two dead men for breakfast every day, including Sunday.” He paused to smile at his own wit. “Mister Gilbert Ross, government mine inspector, stands accused of trying to ruin the reputation of the Blue Hole Mine and discredit me, the owner. Not only that, but he shot and killed two of my men while they were attempting to remove treasure from a Wells, Fargo stagecoach. Not satisfied with this shooting, he went to Gold Hill and threatened Frank Fossett with bodily harm.” He turned to Scrivener. “Martin McNulty, also known as the Sierra Scrivener, has been a thorn in my side for some time now, writing scurrilous editorials, trying to blacken Mister Fossett’s reputation. And now one or both of you somehow convinced the miners’ union to quit the Blue Hole…in effect, putting that mine out of business, and stealing money from us.” He paused and smiled like a cat that has finally captured an elusive mouse. “And last, but far from least, my dear Angeline Champeaux…what can I say about you? You and Mister Tuttle were intimate. Regardless of the fact you were more interested in his money than in him, he trusted you. What passes between a man and his mistress should remain sacrosanct, information as privileged as that between a lawyer and his client…”

“I’m
not
his mistress!” Her voice was low and venomous.

“Well…a rose by any other name…”

“If you want to call me something, just say I was his high-priced prostitute!” she spat, her cheeks flaming.

“Regardless, my dear,” Holladay went on calmly, “you betrayed our secrets to these men, who were instrumental in thwarting our attempt to take a large Wells, Fargo treasure shipment. And your betrayal cost the lives of two of my men.” He paused and looked at them, one at
a time. “The inspector, the editor, and the beautiful woman. What say you, gentlemen of the jury?” He threw out an arm to an imaginary twelve. “Guilty as charged?”

“Guilty!” Tuttle proclaimed.

“So be it. Now, in my role as judge, I must devise a sentence. Of course it will be death. But death can come in many forms. And you three have earned the right to die in a most prolonged and terror-stricken way…so that you will have a few hours to meditate on your sins as you pass from this world.”

Ross glanced at the lean man in black with a tied-down holster.

“You haven’t met Billy Joe Slater,” Holladay said, following Ross’s gaze. “He’s quicker and deadlier than a rattler, in case you have ideas of escaping.”

Slater wore a pokerface, black eyes dead in the lantern light. Evidently he was here as an enforcer, as a sergeant-at-arms to make sure everything went as planned.

Angeline wasn’t about to take this lying down. As tired and frazzled as she was beginning to look, she loosed a barrage of invective at Avery Tuttle, damning him, all his relatives, and all of his associates to an everlasting, fiery, rotting hell.

In spite of their plight, Ross found himself fascinated by the articulate inventiveness and force of this vituperation. He stole a glance at Frank Fossett. He had the air of a disinterested bystander. Of their four captors, Tuttle and Holladay were the only ones who showed any animation. Perhaps if Angeline could distract them long enough, she’d create an opportunity for Ross to make a break. Holladay had something very fiendish in mind for the three of them, and Ross had no desire to find out first hand what it was.

From beneath half-closed eyelids Ross studied Slater, who was standing closest to him. Would he have a chance to tackle the man and clamp his gun arm to prevent him from drawing? If he missed, it would be all over. But maybe being shot was better than whatever awaited them. If he could somehow communicate his intention to the other two…A good whack on Fossett’s injured arm would likely put him out of action in a fight. Tuttle probably had a gun under his duster, but wasn’t a good physical specimen when it came to rough-and-tumble. If Scrivener could throw a hard punch at that soft paunch…But Ross knew he couldn’t start anything on his own, and risk all their lives. And he couldn’t alert the others about his intent.

Angeline finally ran down and paused to catch her breath. In the sudden silence, the tireless Washoe zephyr continued to rattle the tin panels and a few breezes found their way through the cracks to blow the candle, causing wavering shadows. The lantern continued to burn with a steady flame, emphasizing the lines and hollows in several tired faces. The dawn couldn’t be more than an hour away.

“Are you finished?” Holladay asked in a calm voice. “Then let the record show that one of the defendants testified on her own behalf.”

She caught the would-be judge eyeing her low-cut dress and she pulled the light cape around herself, glaring at him.

“Now, if there is no other business, it’s time to carry out the sentence,” Holladay declared, rubbing his hands together. He bowed with mock courtesy, and handed Angeline the lighted candle he retrieved from the floor. “Miss Champeaux, I believe it’s customary for ladies to go first. If you’ll just step this way…Hold your candle so you can see…there, now, just step back onto the
first rung of that ladder and start down the shaft. It would be much easier and quicker if we could lower all of you in the bucket…especially since we’ve all had a tiring night. But you see we have no horse or mule to work the whim.” He did a good job of appearing distressed.

“Why don’t you give us that lantern?” Scrivener asked. “This candle might go out.”

“Then you can relight it,” Holladay replied with a harsh laugh. “We need the lantern, and you don’t. The candle is expendable. You might last a little longer than it will.”

Ross again looked for a chance to jump Slater. But the smooth gunfighter now had his Colt in hand, pointed their way. There was no chance of escape.

Ross felt a twinge of panic as he climbed down the rickety ladder, shaking with the weight of the other two below him. His worst nightmare was coming true. They were being abandoned to die in an empty mine, hundreds of feet below the surface—to suffocate, to starve, to die of thirst, to be asphyxiated by poison gas, to be crushed by a cave-in, their bodies gnawed by hundreds of rats that infested these dark tunnels.

He prayed silently for a way out. He wanted to rush back up the ladder toward the door so he’d be gunned down. At least it would end quickly. But he had second thoughts about committing suicide when he looked up to see the black muzzle of the Colt in Slater’s hand three feet away and pointed right at his head. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. There had to be another way. And he would find it—or die.