West of Washoe (19 page)

Ross said nothing, but reflected that he never ceased to be amazed by human nature.

The chief jerked his head toward Fossett. “He’ll be charged and go to trial. But, considering the circumstances, I’d guess he’ll be let off easier. I’ll testify. Why he came in of his own accord, I don’t know. Maybe revenge, jealousy, or guilty conscience. But the fact remains he did confess and pointed the finger at his former partners.”

“You said someone is down in the mine, looking for us?” Ross said.

“I rousted out the president of the miners’ union and he rounded up John Rucker and several men who’d quit the Blue Hole. They volunteered to try to find you. They’re searching now.” He scrubbed a hand across his unshaven jowls. “I been up there at the hoisting works the last few hours myself, waiting for word. The news spread around town, and everybody’s been pulling for you to be rescued. First thing Rucker found was that collapsed tunnel at the bottom of the shaft where you went in. Figured you’d been buried by the blast. Some of the miners were digging for your bodies there, while others took horns and whistles and lanterns and started searching the other tunnels and other levels. But there’re miles of passageways below that mountain.” He shook his head. “If you’d stayed put at the bottom of the main shaft, they’d have snaked you outta there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“We didn’t know anybody’d come looking, because
nobody knew we were down there,” Scrivener said. “We had to try to save ourselves.”

“And, by Jesus, you did it…with a little help from the Almighty.”

“He could’ve helped without scaring my hair grayer than it already is,” Scrivener said.

“What about Crawford, the Wells, Fargo agent?” Ross asked.

“Wounded, tied, and gagged. He’ll be all right. Fossett, here, takes credit for the man not being killed. Anyway, that’s what he claims.”

“I saw no reason to kill the man,” Fossett said. “He didn’t see our faces before we jumped him, so he couldn’t identify anyone later.”

“I don’t blame you for trying to save your neck from the gallows,” the chief said to Fossett. “And it’ll go in your favor that you told us where to find the bullion and coin that was looted.”

“Where was it?” Ross asked.

“In Ben Holladay’s stage stable between here and Carson City.”

“Nobody was guarding it there?” Scrivener asked.

“Nope. Fossett said the plan was to leave it hid for a day or two under a haystack until things cooled down, then move it out under cover of night a little at a time.”

“So Tuttle and Slater and Holladay are gone?”

The chief nodded. “We have a man at Tuttle’s mansion in Carson City, but he hasn’t shown up there yet. And you can bet Holladay will have an alibi that he was in Colorado or somewhere else when all this happened. Except for Fossett’s testimony…and your eyewitness accounts, of course…some lawyer will have a tough time proving Ben Holladay had any connection at all with these robberies and killings. But, if
he’s apprehended, your sworn testimony might sway a jury.”

“Why did you rob the Wells, Fargo office instead of sticking to the stagecoach hold-ups?” Ross asked Fossett.

“Holladay figured it was taking too long and getting too many of his men shot so he decided to go for the big haul…try to bring Wells, Fargo to their knees in a hurry.”

“I wouldn’t be for doin’ so much talking,” Chief McClanahan advised. “Save it for your trial.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll say the same thing on the stand. When I decided to come to you, I intended to make a clean breast of the whole thing. I’ll tell the simple truth as I know it. Won’t try to hide anything. I had a good record up to now. I’ll take whatever’s coming to me.”

Ross wondered if this was the same defensive, arrogant man he’d confronted in front of the
Clarion
newspaper office only recently. People could, and did, change. Fossett might have been putting up a front that day. Or he could be putting up one now. No, the man’s actions spoke louder than any words. And what he’d done, for whatever reason, would probably save him from the hangman.

A few minutes later, McClanahan stretched and stood up. He handed Scrivener back his gun. “Keep that thing quiet, or you’ll be my next guest.” He took Fossett by the arm. “I’ll be returning m’ prisoner to the lockup. He’ll be under guard for his own protection.”

“From what?”

“Oh, he’s a marked man now, after turning on his partners. I figure Billy Joe Slater will come looking to shut his mouth, permanently.”

Fossett looked sick.

Ross pictured the flat, black eyes of the emotionless
gunman.
He won’t be back unless someone pays him
, Ross thought.
Slater’s not the type to do anything for revenge. On the other hand, eliminating the major inside witness would also protect him from hanging, should he ever be caught.
With a jolt, Ross realized that, to a lesser extent, he and Scrivener and Angeline were also witnesses, and their lives in jeopardy.

Just then there was a commotion at the door and several miners walked in, led by the broad-shouldered John Rucker wearing a plaid shirt. The stocky miner came straight to Ross and gave him a brief hug. “Praise be,” he said quietly. “We were beginning to think you were gone, especially after we heard that cave-in.” He solemnly shook hands with Scrivener and Angeline.

Ross looked at the grimy, dirt-streaked miners standing silently a few feet away. “Thank you all for coming to rescue us.”

They nodded and muttered their acknowledgement.

“Whatever they want to eat or drink is on me!” Ross yelled at the waiter and bartender who were watching the scene. “Time for us to clean up and find some clothes,” Ross added.

Angeline handed back the chief’s coat, and took Ross’s hand. The two of them and Scrivener went out into the sunshine of a new day.

Three days later Martin Scrivener stood in front of the Wells, Fargo office, saying good bye to Gil Ross and Angeline Champeaux as they prepared to board a west-bound stage.

“Next to Virginia City, San Francisco is about as lively a place as you could find,” Scrivener said. “But things are going to be almighty dull around here with both of you gone.”

“I don’t think it was our presence that created all the excitement,” Ross said. “I’ll have to give Clemens credit for that with those editorials he conjured up while you were out of town. They turned out to be closer to the mark than he ever imagined.”

“Yeah. Events took a definite downturn from there,” the editor agreed, stroking his goatee. “Too bad you can’t stay a while longer…both of you.”

“I’m leaving behind the painting of me over the bar,” Angeline said.

“Looking at your likeness will make me miss you even more. But I’ll also remember you as that bedraggled woman with the torn dress down in the mine.”

“I don’t want to ever think about it again,” she said with a shudder. “It’s already started haunting my dreams.”

“Ross, you’ve got a job as a reporter on the
Enterprise
any time you want one.”

“Thanks, but I’ve still got a job. In fact, my report’s due next week. Besides, I’ve enough notes and fresh
memories to fill a book of my own as soon as I get to San Francisco and start writing it. It’ll put my other travel books to shame for excitement and interest.”

“You could mail in your report, take some vacation time, and write your book at our boarding house. The landlady would love to have you. You brought a lot of business her way, since you became a celebrated visitor.”

“A notorious visitor is more like it…since you wrote up those news stories.”

“Well, what’re friends for?” Scrivener chuckled.

“Speaking of notorious, do you think Tuttle and Slater are in hiding somewhere hereabouts? Tuttle hasn’t showed up at his Carson City mansion for the past few days.”

“I think they’ve gone in different directions far from here. Ben Holladay could be hiding them, who knows?”

“I know men pretty well,” Angeline said. “And Tuttle just doesn’t have it in him to murder anyone. He may be a lot of other things, but he’s no killer.”

“That leaves Slater,” Scrivener said. “Cold and deadly is my calculation. If either of them is ever arrested, you two will have to testify at the trial…along with Fossett.”

“I’ll be looking over my shoulder until that Billy Joe Slater is behind bars,” Angeline said. “He gives me the chills. He’ll haunt my nightmares as long as he’s on the loose.”

Ross nodded. “She’s right. We’re a danger to him at least as witnesses to attempted murder. If he got a chance, he’d think no more of killing us than he would stepping on a couple of bugs.” He looked at Angeline. “That’s why we’re traveling together to San Francisco…mutual protection. We can watch out for each other.”

Scrivener gave him a skeptical look.

“I have his Thirty-Two in my reticule,” she said, catching hold of her broad-brimmed straw hat in a sudden breeze. “Never thought I’d have to take to carrying a gun to protect myself.”

“I’m more worried about you protecting that peaches-and-cream complexion from this summer sun.” Scrivener smiled, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek.

Ross tried to erase from his mind the fact that she made a very good living as a high-priced prostitute. He was probably old-fashioned, but he somehow couldn’t equate her demeanor and her classy bearing with her choice of profession.

“Let’s get aboard, folks!” the stage driver called. “We got a schedule to keep.” The driver swung up to the high box and settled in beside the shotgun messenger.

Ross gripped the editor’s hand warmly. “I might be back sooner than you think,” he said. “In the meantime, watch your back. You could be a target for Slater, too.”

“Hell, who wants to live forever?” Scrivener said gruffly, clearing his throat, apparently trying to keep his emotions in check. “Besides, what’s life without a little excitement? A man can’t live on collecting arrowheads alone.”

“If Clemens is working for one of the San Francisco papers, I’ll give him these last two editions of the
Enterprise.
He can read about what he missed.”

Ross took Angeline’s arm and helped her up into the waiting coach. Her trunk and Ross’s bag had already been stowed in the rear boot. He had his fully loaded and capped Navy Colt strapped to his hip. He was taking no chances.

They settled onto the leather seat, sharing the coach with only three other passengers. They waved at Scrivener
who stepped back as the coach lurched into motion.

Ross smiled at Angeline beside him. She’d removed her wide hat and held it in her lap. They had a long ride ahead of them. He’d seen her at her worst—under duress in the mine. Now he looked forward to seeing her at her best—well, possibly her
second
best.

“Hidden gold, dead padres, Apaches, and two of the nastiest villains you’ll ever meet are only some of the exciting elements of one of Champlin’s best stories. Don’t miss this one!”

—
Roundup Magazine

“As usual, Champlin seamlessly weaves his impeccable historical research into his plot…A fine traditional Western that is more realistic than most.”

—
Roundup Magazine

“Full of suspense…maintains the reader’s interest…[Champlin] has unbelievable knowledge of the Lakota Indians.”

—
The Tombstone Epitaph

“Champlin once more demonstrates his skill at blending fiction and history…[He] creates both mood and a sense of place.”

—
Roundup Magazine

“No one writes novels with humorous, impossible plots better than Tim Champlin…An absolutely wonderful book.”

—
Roundup Magazine

“Realistic…compelling.”

—
Roundup Magazine

“An exceptional frontier story…Purchase it, read it, and find a spot for it in your library.”

—
The Tombstone Epitaph

“Champlin obviously knows his area and the minutiae of his chosen period quite well…good story.”

—
The Tombstone Epitaph

“A nice brew of traditional Western fare, that is to say, juiced up a notch or two.”

—
The Historical Novels Review