West of Washoe (6 page)

“You?”

Clemens nodded. “I wrote two or three pieces about Fossett and repeated some rumors I’d heard about his low-down shenanigans of salting mines, and adultery,
and possibly being the brains behind some stage hold-ups. Thought it’d be fun to hear him howl and call us a few names in print. Turned out most of my jabs hit a sore spot. Fossett didn’t deny what I’d written. Guess he figured I had some kind of proof to back up what I said. He blew up and threatened Martin, thinking he was the one who’d exposed him.”

“Why didn’t he go after you?”

“My pieces didn’t have a byline.”

“I see.”

“I started this while Martin was out of town for a week. Thought it might boost circulation.” He shook his head. “It did more than that. Martin came back and heard all the ruckus. When he realized Fossett really was the whited sepulcher I’d made him out to be, Martin backed me with some editorials of his own. So, now Fossett’s after
him.
But I can’t stand by and let that happen. Martin Scrivener’s too good a man to finish something I started.”

“What can you do about it?”

Clemens didn’t answer while the waiter set their food on the table.

“As you know, Fossett or one of his men tried to burn down the
Enterprise,
” Clemens continued. “I have to stop him before he does something even more desperate. The only thing I can think to do is own up to writing those pieces, and challenge him to a duel.”

“Isn’t there a law against dueling in this territory?”

“Yep. The law would have to clamp down on any crime as public as that. We’d both be arrested and jailed.”

“You wouldn’t have to advertise the time and place,” Ross said.

“Quit trying to get me killed,” Clemens said. “You don’t think I actually
want
to fight a duel with deadly
weapons, do you? I’d have to leak it to the press or put out a few broadsides with Fossett’s name on them. Weak as they are, the police will have to be given a chance to prevent it.” He spooned up a bite of pork and beans. “I may carry this six-shot Navy Colt, but if I were to fire it at the bartender over there, I’d just as likely fetch the bouncer by the door.”

“Not a marksman, then?”

Clemens shook his head. “Especially when my nerves are playing hobs with my gun hand.”

Ross wiped up some juice with a crust of bread and chewed thoughtfully.

“You don’t want to go to jail, either. Why don’t you have Fossett arrested for various and sundry crimes?”

“I have no proof.”

“You’re in a bind.”

“To take Fossett’s mind off Scrivener, I’ll own up to the accusations, challenge him to a duel, and then make myself scarce for a while until things settle down.”

“That won’t do much for your reputation.”

“As the Bible says…‘better a live mouse than a dead lion’…or something to that effect.”

“I wouldn’t be in your shoes for a controlling interest in the Comstock.”

After lunch they parted, Clemens heading for the newspaper office and Ross starting up the street to find a men’s clothing store, or a likely-looking mercantile to replace the coat he’d ruined. A half block ahead, seated on the edge of the boardwalk and leaning against a post, was a drunk—or a beggar. Ross slowed his pace for a look. Although beggars were few in this town, drunks were as common as hoof prints. What differed about this one was the hand-lettered sign he held propped in his lap. It read:

AVERY TUTTLE,

Owner of the Blue Hole Mine

A Robber, Liar, Murderer

Takes silver for the lives of miners

Most pedestrians walked around the man’s legs sprawled out in the sidewalk. Others gave him only a curious glance as they passed. One or two stopped to read the sign as Ross came up. The man was emaciated, obviously drunk or sick, with a week’s worth of whiskers, his eyes wearing a watery, glazed look that focused on nothing. As Ross watched, the man pulled a bottle from behind the sign and took a swig. From a few feet away, the square-faced bottle and label looked like some kind of patent medicine.

Ross was curious. If there was something about the Blue Hole Mine he should know, he meant to find out
what it was. He hunkered down. “Hey mister, what’s this about Avery Tuttle and his mine?”

The man turned in his direction and attempted to focus. His effort was interrupted by a sudden spasm of dry coughing. He finally stopped, and took a deep breath, but seemed even weaker than before.

“What about the Blue Hole?” Ross repeated.

“It’ll kill ya,” the man replied, struggling for enough breath to speak.

“Poison gas in the mine? No canaries there to warn you?” Ross prompted.

“No masks, no air, just rock dust,” the man gasped.

“How about if I buy you something to eat?” Ross said. “You hungry?”

The man nodded weakly.

Ross took him around the shoulders and under the arms and helped him up. The stoppered bottle
clattered
to the boards. Ross put it in his pocket.

“My sign…” The man reached back and clutched it as Ross aided him to the door of the first saloon he saw. Just inside, the man sagged into a chair at an empty table. Ross sat next to him, propping the sign against the wall.

“This here is one o’ them two-bit saloons,” the man objected.

“No matter. I’m paying,” Ross said.

The so-called two-bit saloons were on the uphill side of the street and fancied themselves as higher class than the one-bit saloons below. They sported fancier fixtures, mirrors, better selection of liquors and wines, and a varied menu. Not only did they charge two bits a drink, but everything else was proportionally higher, from cigars to steaks. As a practical matter, a man couldn’t pay just 12 1/2¢ for a drink in the lower-priced saloons since 1/2¢ coppers had long since gone out of
circulation, so bartenders habitually returned as change for a quarter only a 10¢ piece or two silver half-dimes, making them one-bit saloons in name only.

Ross ordered the man a bowl of beef stew and a pint of beer.

“What’s your name, mister?” Ross asked when the waiter had gone.

“Jacob Sturm,” the man replied, trying to focus. His breath reeked of alcohol. Ross pulled out the half full, square-faced bottle and gently shook it, watching the deep amber contents swirl inside the clear glass. He read the yellow label.
Madam Turney’s Mountain Elixir
was printed in flowing, ornate script across the top. In smaller lettering below, it professed to be a cure for corns, erysipelas, as well as dyspepsia, the grippe, flatulent colic, and botts. It prevented liver and heart ailments, and would relieve symptoms of mountain fever, colds, congestion, asthma, and shortness of breath. But Ross almost laughed aloud when he read the last line.
For botts, it has no equal.

“That’s m’ medicine…for my lungs,” Sturm said breathlessly.

Ross twisted out the cork and took a tentative sniff. “Holy shit!” He jerked back, eyes watering. “Guaranteed to cure or kill,” he agreed.

“Makes me feel better,” Sturm muttered.

“I can believe that.” Ross corked the bottle and set it on the table. This Sturm was stronger than he appeared if he could swig Madam Turney’s Elixir and stay upright.

“What’s this about the Blue Hole Mine?” Ross again asked.

“Avery Tuttle…a cruel man.”

“He’s the owner?”

“Yeah. Rock dust and gas ate up my lungs working at the Blue Hole.”

“All the mines are dangerous like that.”

Sturm shook his head. “Tuttle cuts corners. Men killed when rotten ropes break on the hoist. Foreman orders miners into drifts…where they’re scalded by hot steam. Forces us to work in spaces where gas is leaking…”—he paused to gasp for breath—“beyond the reach of air blowers.”

The waiter arrived with the stew and beer, took a silver dollar from Ross, and left.

Sturm was convulsed with a dry, hacking cough before he could begin eating. “I’m a walking dead man,” he whispered as he took up his spoon.

For several seconds Ross was silent. Mine owners, in general, were not humanitarians. They would pay the cheapest wage they could, work the men as hard as possible, cut their overhead to a minimum, rake in big profits, and undercut or steal their neighbor’s rich vein of ore if they got half a chance. Power, greed, and wealth brought out the worst in human nature. Yet, there were exceptions. He’d heard the Irish immigrant, John Mackay, one of the richest men on the Comstock, was the antithesis of most others in his honesty, integrity, and care for friends and employees. He was liked and admired by nearly everyone—a notable quality among the newly wealthy mine owners who’d come up from nothing. The miners had organized into a strong union to protect themselves from men like Avery Tuttle.

“You a union member?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t the union threaten to strike if the miners weren’t paid four dollars a day?”

“That’s right,” Sturm said, looking up with bleary eyes. “And we got it, too.”

“Seems like that kind of money would help make up for the bad working conditions.”

Sturm looked at him suspiciously. “You part of management?”

“No. Just interested in your story. Go on.”

“We took to tying bandannas over nose and mouth to filter the air. But it was too damned hot down there to keep those things on very long. Heat one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty. We stripped down to our shorts. Union agreed with Tuttle…we’d work a half hour, then rest for a half hour…drink pints of water, chew on ice kept in barrels near the blower tubes. Can’t work long in that kind of heat…” He paused and took three rattling breaths. “But Tuttle kept his foreman on our backs…wouldn’t keep to that agreement. Waited till somebody passed out before he’d call for rest. And usually no ice sent down from up top.”

“Why didn’t you quit and go somewhere else?”

“I was going to…but found out by then I was sick…couldn’t get hired in no other mine.” His eyes seemed to be focusing better as the food began to have a restorative effect, offsetting Madam Turney’s Elixir.

Sturm ate another spoonful and washed it down with a swallow of beer. “Funny thing is…the harder the foreman pushed us, the less good ore we took outta there.”

“How could you tell until it was milled and smelted?”

Sturm looked at him with disdain. “Mister, I been a miner for a lot of years. I know rich ore on sight…by color, by feel. What we took out of there…the past few months was poor-grade stuff. Have to move a lot of rock and clay to get any good metal outta that.”

“I reckon Tuttle was desperate, then, to keep cutting back on overhead expenses to see if he could strike something better.” It seemed entirely logical to Ross that a hard, ruthless mine owner would act that way. Yet he could understand Sturm’s complaints as well. The man had taken a chance, been well paid to do a dangerous job, and had ruined his health as a result.

Sturm finished his food and drained the beer.

“Can I help you home?” Ross offered. This man was in no shape to be picketing on the street. The next person might take offense at his sign. “Where do you live?”

“Back room of a house down the block.”

Ross helped him up, pocketing the bottle of elixir, and handing the miner his sign.

Sturm leaned on him as they left the saloon and walked the block to the frame building. He helped him inside the unlocked door. The sick man sagged down on his bunk, muttering his thanks for the help and the food. He seemed to fall into a doze almost immediately.

Ross gazed down on him for a moment to be sure he was breathing normally, spread a blanket over the fully dressed man, then turned to leave.

He was startled by a movement on the other side of the room. A stocky man dressed in long Johns rolled out of a bunk next to the far wall.

“Oh, sorry,” Ross said. “Didn’t know anyone else was here.”

“John Rucker, his roommate. Thanks for bringing him home.” He reached for shirt and pants hanging on the bedpost.

“Gil Ross. I saw him on the street and he looked to be in pretty rough shape.”

“Rough is the word, all right,” Rucker said, shrugging muscular shoulders into his galluses. “I agreed to
stay with Jake and look after him for whatever time he has left…which ain’t long, I’m guessing.”

“What’s wrong with him? I bought him some food and he was telling me a tale…”

“He let you buy him lunch? I’m surprised. He has money…a small union pension…and a lot of pride.” He sat down on the bunk to pull on his heavy socks and brogans. “Jacob has what the doctor calls silicosis. Lungs are ruined from breathing rock dust. He ain’t the first to get it, and sure as hell won’t be the last.”

“He was blaming Avery Tuttle for it.”

Rucker looked up sharply, finished tying his shoes, then rose and came across the room.

“What did he tell you?”

Ross repeated Sturm’s story.

“
Hmmm
…” Rucker smoothed his sweeping mustache as he stared out the window at the dreary, manmade hills of spoil a quarter mile behind the house.

“Ross…Ross…? Are you that mine inspector I read about yesterday in the
Enterprise
?”

“That’s right.”

Rucker turned back toward him and seemed undecided about what to say next.

“Basically, what Sturm told you is true. I work at the Blue Hole, too. Fact is, my shift starts at six this evening. I would have kept Jake here, but I was sound asleep when he slipped out. He does that when he gets a chance. I don’t want him to get hurt. He’s too weak to pick a fight, except by what he says, along with that sign he carries. He’s dying and he’s bitter. Accuses Tuttle of damned near everything that’s wrong with the world.”

“Can’t say as I blame him, if this Tuttle is really that bad.”

Rucker hesitated again. “Did you help Jake because
you were trying to get information from him about the mine?”

“Partially. But I also saw a down-and-outer who needed help, and I gave him a hand before somebody came along and kicked him because of that sign he was holding.”

“Who you inspecting these mines for?”

“The government. I’m to report on the state of mining in general and give an estimate of mineral prospects on the whole Comstock.”

Rucker considered this for a moment. “If I let you in on something, do I have your word that you’ll keep quiet about where you got the information?”

“You have my hand on it.” He gripped the miner’s rough palm.

“This Tuttle is scum, all right, but for reasons besides what Jake told you.”

Ross leaned against the upright post of the bunk bed and listened.

“We’ve talked about Tuttle at our union meetings, and been gathering evidence to set the law on him. Some of our miners suspect he’s actually salting that worthless dirt and rock with high-grade silver ore, once the stuff is hauled topside. We haven’t actually caught anybody in the act of doing it yet. But Jake came close. Just before he had to quit, he heard a shotgun blast in one of the tunnels, went to investigate, and found the tunnel wall peppered with flecks of gold somebody had shot into it. The gold hadn’t been there a half hour before. The stock of the Blue Hole has been rising in San Francisco. When it gets up to where Tuttle wants it, he’ll likely sell out.”

“If you give me the evidence, I’ll expose him and save the union from doing it.” If there was anything Ross hated—even more than an upfront, armed robber—it
was a sneak thief and a cheat. And this man was a brutal owner besides. He’d be glad to take the risk of exposing him.

“We’ll take care of Avery Tuttle,” Rucker said. “I thought all this would come to light before now anyway, since
The Territorial Enterprise
has run some stories accusing the editor of
The Gold Hill Clarion,
Frank Fossett, of salting mines. Fossett is a one-third owner of the Blue Hole.”

Ross tried not to show his surprise. Using only rumors, Clemens had accidentally accused the right man in print.

“And that’s not the end of Tuttle’s dirty tricks,” Rucker went on, pacing the floor in agitation. “We ain’t got proof yet, but we’re pretty sure Frank Fossett, Avery Tuttle, and Ben Holladay, owner of the Overland Stage Line, are all in on a plot to force Wells, Fargo to sell out their Pioneer Line that runs between here and San Francisco. Holladay has a reputation as a ruthless businessman. It won’t be the first competitor he’s forced to knuckle under. Once he gets the Pioneer Line, he’ll have a complete monopoly of staging from Kansas to Montana, Denver, Salt Lake, and clear to the West Coast.”

“Why would he want that fairly short Wells, Fargo line?”

Rucker shrugged. “Men like Holladay got all the damned money they could ever spend. But rich men never get out of the habit of wanting more. Since the Comstock’s been booming, that Pioneer Line makes a bundle of cash for Wells, Fargo.”

Ross’s head was whirling. When he’d helped Jacob Sturm into the saloon for a meal, hoping to satisfy his curiosity about the man’s sign, he never thought it would lead to inside information about a high-level plot involving
a newspaper editor, a mine owner, and the proprietor of the largest staging company in the country. He tried to let on he was used to hearing things like this every day. “How were they planning to force Wells, Fargo to sell?”