West of Washoe (4 page)

Within minutes, the blaze was out. The firemen continued to wet down the steaming wall and floor. The room was filled with smoke and steam, and a nauseating charred odor.

The newspaper workers had retreated out onto the sidewalk, coughing to clear their lungs of the smoke that continued to billow out the open door and the shattered window frame. A quick survey showed no one
injured except the burned compositor. A crowd had quickly gathered and blocked the street around the fire engine, a buzz of conversation filling the air. Ross and Scrivener stood to one side, watching the efficient volunteer fire company work, making sure no embers remained to re-ignite.

“I told you Fossett wouldn’t have the guts to challenge me to a duel,” Scrivener said, wiping his sweaty face with a handkerchief, leaving a streak of soot on his cheek.

Ross took a deep breath of clean air. “You had him pegged. Low-down coward to torch a man’s business, not caring who he might burn up in the process.”

“And he thinks he got away with it, because I can’t prove he did it.”

“Don’t know if he personally slung the torch, but I’m almost sure I wounded that rider.”

Scrivener turned to him with a slow smile. “So maybe we
do
have proof…if we can find him.”

Ross shook his head. “Unless it’s Fossett himself, it’ll be hard to say. Too many men shot in this town every day to make a wound anything unusual. And my Thirty-Six-caliber Navy lead ball is common enough. But we can get the law to investigate.”

“What law?” the editor countered. “Like the stock market, this place pretty much regulates itself. There’s supposed to be a sheriff over in Carson City, but don’t know that anybody sees much of him. The police force here is a joke.”

Ross gestured at the damaged office. “Did he put you out of business?”

“Hell no! The press is OK. Looks like we saved the ink and there’s still plenty of dry paper. It’d take more than that to keep
The Territorial Enterprise
from publishing.”

Scrivener stepped up to a muscular, red-faced man who was supervising the firefighting effort. “Murph, I want to thank you and the boys for a helluva good job saving the paper.”

“That’s what we train for,” the big man said, pulling off his gloves. “The way the wind’s blowing tonight, the whole town could’ve gone up, if this’d gotten away from us. We’ll stand by for a couple hours to make sure it’s completely out.”

The crowd in the street was beginning to disperse now that the excitement had died down.

“Let’s get this place cleaned up, men,” Scrivener said, stepping back inside the office. “We’ll have that window boarded up tomorrow.”

“I’ll stay and help,” Ross said.

Scrivener surveyed the damage, hands on hips. “How badly is Bill burned?”

Two men were gently removing the tattered remains of Bill’s charred shirt. The injured man was flinching as the cloth adhered to the raw spots.

“Dunno yet.”

Scrivener went into his office and jerked open a desk drawer. “Here, slather some of this on him and go get the doctor. You know where he lives? Roust him out of bed if you have to.” He handed over a tin of
Mabrey’s Analgesic Balm.

The editor looked at the others who appeared to be in shock. “Somebody open that back door and let’s get a cross draft in here to clear out some of this smoke. Break out the brooms.” He turned to a curly-haired, mustached young man standing nearby. “Clemens, you have experience as a typesetter. Drop whatever you’re working on and jump in there and take Bill’s place for now. First, check that case and see how much of the lead
type was melted.” To his young assistant editor he barked: “Kill the lead story. I’m writing a new one. Banner head.” He stepped inside his office and snatched a pad off the desk, pulled a pencil from his pocket, and slipped on his glasses.

Ross watched over his shoulder as he wrote in block letters:
ENTERPRISE ATTACKED.
Beneath that, in smaller letters:
Cowardly Enemy Torches Newspaper Office.
Farther down, in normal cursive, he wrote:
Attacker Wounded And Will Be Apprehended Soon.
He pulled out his desk chair and sat down, finishing the article quickly.

“You going to accuse Fossett in print?” Ross asked.

Without looking up, Scrivener replied: “Not using his name, but I’m leaving no doubt I know who did it, and why. For anyone who reads this, it won’t be hard to guess.”

“Don’t want to tell you your business, but aren’t you adding fuel to the fire? Maybe we should wait and see if we can find that wounded man first.”

Scrivener looked up. “You’d never make it in the newspaper business. This is the kind of thing that sells papers. And I’m not letting that coward off the hook for a minute.”

Ross shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He grabbed a push broom standing against the wall and began sweeping shattered glass and blackened water toward the open front door.

Scrivener finished, scanned the piece, and handed it to Sam Clemens. “You and Baxter start setting that.”

“Your men didn’t panic,” Ross said when Scrivener came to stand beside him near the front door. “And they did a great job keeping that fire under control until the firemen got here.”

“I might increase their beer ration,” Scrivener said under his breath.

“For morale, or to put out fires?”

“Both. They can drink it for morale, and run it through to put out any fires.”

It was nearly noon the next day before Martin Scrivener and Gil Ross rolled south out of town in the editor’s buggy.

“By God, all of Washoe will know about Fossett’s attack,” Scrivener said, snapping the reins on the back of the sorrel, urging him to a trot.

“Guess I’ll really have to watch your back now,” Ross said, yawning and stretching. He’d been in town less than thirty-two hours but it felt more like a week.

“That sneaky, torch-throwing s.o.b. slowed us down. The morning edition hit the streets two hours late.”

Ross wondered if all editors took this much pride in their jobs. If he worked at a newspaper, it’d have to be an evening publication; he couldn’t stand to work all night and sleep all day. In spite of Scrivener’s resolve to make an early night of it, neither man had departed the damaged
Enterprise
office until nearly 5:00 a.m. The editor had left two men on guard to be sure the fire-throwing attacker or someone else didn’t come back to finish the job. Ross thought a twenty-four-hour guard would have to be posted to prevent any further destruction. Scrivener was on the defensive now. Ross had heard of these battles between editors before, and had assumed they were all contrived to keep up interest and circulation in both papers. He was convinced that wasn’t the case here.

The wind was light out of the southwest today,
making for a beautiful, warm spring day. He settled back to enjoy the ride.

“As long as we’re running this far behind in our schedule,” Scrivener said, “I thought we’d shoot on down to Carson City and leave word at the sheriff’s office…for whatever good that’ll do. On the way back, you can take a look at the mines and decide where you want to go later.”

“Good idea. I didn’t see much the other morning from the stage. It was barely daylight and I was tired.”

Shortly after, as they drove up the saddle that divided Virginia City from Gold Hill, Scrivener pointed. “There’s the Crown King. We’ll catch it on the way back.”

“A big operation,” Ross said, noting the hoisting works, the big buildings, the smoke billowing from a tall stack.

“Not the largest, by any means,” the editor said.

By 2:00 p.m. they’d reached Carson City and left a report of the fiery raid with the sheriff’s office. As expected, the lawman was not there, and the deputy, sunning himself on the porch, could hardly be stirred to take down the details.

“That report’s probably already in the files…or the stove,” Scrivener said as he guided his sorrel back the way they’d come.

“I hear tell there’s to be a branch mint in Carson to avoid having to freight all that bullion over the Sierras to the San Francisco mint,” Ross said.

“There’s some movement in that direction. A fella bought some land and is petitioning Congress to authorize and fund it.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Ross said. “The sooner, the better. That would save a lot of money and prevent a lot of robberies.”

The editor nodded. “It’ll be built about the time the last glacier melts in Alaska.”

“A bit pessimistic.”

“The usual political wrangling. Some for, some against. Everyone has a selfish motive. Of course, there’s a war on and Congress doesn’t want to fund anything they don’t have to.”

“But a mint would be to the government’s advantage. More specie in circulation.”

“I know. Maybe they’re waiting until Nevada is admitted to the Union. I think it’ll eventually happen as long as the mines here are producing. But I’m not holding my breath waiting to spend the first coins it mints.”

Ross looked ahead, thinking he’d prepared himself for the changes between Carson City and Virginia City. But he was overwhelmed by what he saw. “Is this Empire City?”

“Yep.”

“This used to be sagebrush, inhabited by an old man named Dutch Nick. Just look at it now.”

The valley along the head of the Carson River was filled with quartz mills and sawmills. The hammering of stamps, the
hissing
of steam, the whirling clouds of smoke from tall chimneys, and confused clamor of voices from crowds of workmen reminded him of some manufacturing city in the East.

A bit farther beyond, at Silver City, was more of the same. From the descent into the cañon through the Devil’s Gate, and up the grade to Gold Hill, stretched a nearly continuous line of mills, dumps, sluices, water wheels, frame shanties, and grog shops. Gold Hill had swelled to the size of a small city, and was now a continuation of Virginia City. The whole hill was riddled and honeycombed with shafts and tunnels, some apparently abandoned. Engine houses for hoisting were
perched on points that appeared nearly inaccessible. Quartz mills of various sizes lined the side of the cañon. The main street was flanked by brick stores, hotels, express offices, saloons, and restaurants.

“Shall we stop in Gold Hill and see if Fossett is at the
Clarion
office?” Ross suggested, only half in jest. “He’s liable to be home nursing that wound I gave him. Who knows? It could be serious.”

Scrivener grunted. “If I see him, I’ll probably finish him off.” He flipped a latch and pushed back the top of the buggy so the afternoon sun shone fully on them.

“That feels good,” Ross said. He was in his shirt sleeves since his coat had been ruined the night before when he’d soaked it in beer and used it to help beat out the fire.

“I used to rattle around this camp in a buckboard, but finally decided, when I hit fifty, that I’d had enough of the elements. Invested in a buggy with a folding top and some leaf springs. The comforts of middle age.”

If the editor was getting soft, it wasn’t apparent to Ross.

They rode in silence for a few minutes while Ross surveyed more of the large and small mining operations that covered nearly every square yard of the mountainsides. Dozens of swarthy, bearded, dust-covered men were piercing the grim mountains, ripping them open, thrusting murderous holes through their crusty bodies, setting up engines to cut out their vital arteries, stamping and crushing up their disemboweled fragments, and holding fiendish revels amid the chaos of destruction. Their numbers and ruthless energy reminded him of nothing so much as swarms of termites on huge earthen mounds he’d seen on a Caribbean island. But the earth was fighting back, as if it had
a vengeful mind against its human tormentors. The mighty mountains rose up to strike down these puny men with disease and death.
Do your worst
, it seemed to say.
Dig, delve, pierce, and bore with your picks and shovels and machines to wring out a few drops of my precious blood. Hoard it, spend it, gamble for it, damn your souls for it. You rip and rave, but you are finite. Do what you will, but I will win out in the end. Sooner or later, death will strike you down and I’ll swallow your remains. From dust you came and to dust you will inevitably return. The earth alone endures.

“Gil! Gil!”

Scrivener’s voice cut into his deep reverie.

“Huh? Oh, sorry…what did you say?”

“Here we are.”

Ross looked up to see they were stopped in front of the tin-sided building housing the hoisting works of the Crown King Mine. Inside, they found a muscular man in overalls and wool shirt inspecting a frayed cable. Scrivener introduced Ross to Jacob Rrug, the foreman. Ross’s hand was enveloped and nearly crushed by the man’s grip.

“A mine inspector, is it? And you want to take a look down below?” The burly man stood with legs apart and hands on hips as he looked Ross up and down. “We inspect our own mine every day. We don’t need any government man to do it for us.”

Ross was instantly irritated, but patiently explained: “I’m only reporting a general idea of the potential of the minerals in Washoe so the government will have an idea of what it’s worth when statehood comes.”

“You can write in your report that the Crown King is doing as well as can be expected, what with all the competition around here.”

Ross shrugged. “There are plenty of other mines I can examine. They’ll be mentioned by name and I’m sure their stock will increase as a result of my published report.”

Krug seemed to deflate slightly. “We ain’t got nothing to hide, mind you. It’s just that we got miners down there working, and we can’t be responsible for any visitors. Could be dangerous, you know.”

“Quite all right, Mister Krug,” Ross said, climbing back into the buggy. Scrivener slapped the reins over the sorrel and they rolled away.

“Where to?” Scrivener inquired.

“It’s getting late in the day. Back to Virginia City. I’ve decided to check out of my hotel and move into your boarding house.”

“For this area, you can’t beat it. Nice and clean and quiet, away from all the ruckus of town. Widow lady runs it and charges twelve dollars a week, without board.”

“Better than the two dollars a night I’m paying now.”

“Tell you what…maybe you should cut your teeth on the Ophir Mine. It’s one of the biggest and best run operations on the Comstock, and the foreman, Michael Flannery, is a good friend of mine. We’ll go up there in the morning. Of course, there are any number of operations you’ll probably want to delve into while you’re here…the Consolidated Virginia close by the Ophir, the Belcher Mine, the Gould and Curry, Hale and Norcross, the Savage, the Yellow Jacket, and a few of the smaller ones, like the Lady Washington and the Trench. There are at least two dozen more. You can take your pick.”

Ross nodded.

“On the way back, there’s a nearby place in the desert I’d like to stop,” Scrivener said. “I’ve picked up a few artifacts from ancient Indians…shards of pottery, and that sort of thing.”

“Fine. Then we can eat supper. Somehow, lunch got away from us.”

A few minutes later Scrivener reined up in a barren, deserted stretch of desert. He tied his horse to a splinter of rock. Ross stepped down, glad to stretch his legs and breathe fresh air, since they were on the windward side of the smoke stacks.

Scrivener walked along, studying the rocky ground. “At this time of day, when the sun’s at a low angle, it’s easier to spot anything on the ground that’s not natural, something manmade.”

To Ross, it looked just like any other patch of desert terrain with almost no plants. The poisonous fall-out from the smoke stacks in the area had killed all the vegetation—no piñon, no juniper, no sage.

“Apparently, bighorn sheep lived in this region in centuries past. The ancient ones hunted them, along with pronghorn antelope and mule deer. Evidence indicates there must have been a decent growth of wheat grass, needle grass, buckwheat, rice grass, and rabbitbrush.” He squatted and moved his head from side to side, carefully scanning the rocky ground, then rose, moved a few more yards, and repeated the process.

Of all the hobbies a man like Martin Scrivener might have, hunting ancient artifacts was one that seemed completely at odds with his normal life. But that’s exactly why it made sense—a relaxing escape from the pressure of his job as editor of
The Territorial Enterprise.

“
Ahh!
” Scrivener sprang forward and picked up a tiny stone. “Look!” He held out an arrowhead. “An
Elko corner-notched projectile point…probably from a hunting spear, by the size of it.”

“Your really know your points.”

The editor smiled. “Been a passion of mine since I was a kid. This one is a rare beauty. Not even damaged. Made and used between One Thousand B.C. and Five Hundred A.D.” He rubbed the dirt from it. “Just think…this point probably brought down game, more than once, during a period when the Greek or the Roman civilizations dominated the known world. Those Mediterranean empires had no idea North America or its inhabitants even existed. Even though they might be broken, every spear point or arrowhead that was ever made is still in existence…somewhere. It just takes a little patience to find them. I like to scout this area shortly after a good rain like we had the other night. It tends to wash them out if they’ve been covered up over time.” He carefully wrapped the point in his handkerchief and put it in his jacket pocket. “I’m buying supper to celebrate,” Scrivener said as they climbed back into the buggy. “This is the most exciting find I’ve made in a long time. Remind me to show you my collection.”

They decided to eat at nearby Gold Hill, unhitching the sorrel and leaving him at the livery for water and grain. A leisurely, two-hour meal followed, with good conversation and good beer. When they finally walked out toward the livery stable, full darkness had fallen and the moon had not yet made an appearance.

Ross felt the bite of the night chill since he had no coat. He walked along, hands in pockets, shivering, when a sharp command burst out of the darkness.

“Throw up your hands!”

Ross felt the muzzle of a gun in his ribs. He brought his hands out of his pockets and put them over his
head, the three double eagles from his right front pocket clutched tightly in his raised right hand.

Scrivener silently put up his hands as well.

The masked robber ordered them to turn their pockets inside out and empty everything into a sack he held. His total take was two pocket combs, two billfolds, three silver dollars, several pennies and dimes, a pad and pencil, and a handkerchief. The footpad stuffed the money into his pocket and apparently felt the spear point in the handkerchief. “What’s this? A piece of ore? Some rich specimen, I’ll wager. Where’d you get it?”

“No. It’s an arrowhead. I collect Indian arrowheads.”

“Shit!” The robber flung it down. “A few dollars worth of change. If you two ever come through here again without some money in your pockets, I’ll blast you.” He snorted in disgust, dumped their billfolds, combs, and other items on the ground, and faded away into the darkness.

Ross let out a deep breath and put the three $20 gold pieces back into his pocket. “Glad it was too dark for him to notice I had my fists balled up.”

“The divide between here and Virginia City is a favorite place for robberies of men afoot at night.” Scrivener was on his hands and knees to retrieve his spear point. “So many hold-ups, I don’t even hear about them all, so I just have to generalize in the paper. Boring and repetitive.”

“Probably not to the victims.”