Stagecoach Graveyard

by Thom Nicholson

  “Nope,” Marty answered. “I just wanted to look over this area for a few minutes.”

  “Have a look.” Squint pointed. “Here’s where them skunks threw me over the cliff and pushed Dave and the stage right over me.” He led the way to the edge of the road and pointed at the scrubby bush growing out of the side of the steep slope. “That’s what was twixt me and eternity.” He pointed downward.

  “My gosh, Almighty,” Carson announced breathlessly. “Look at all those wrecked stages and wagons down there.” He shuddered. “I’d certainly hate to have been in one of them when they went over the side.”

  Malcolm barely glanced down before returning to the coach. “I’m just grateful only one man did go over. You want to see anything else, Marty?”

  “Yes, I want to see if we can find where the outlaws hid themselves before and during the ambushes.” He scrambled up the rocky slope toward the tree line, which had been cut back from the roadway a dozen feet or so by the engineers. Carson was right behind him, but Squint and Malcolm had a more difficult and slower assent into the cover of the trees.

  About a hundred feet above the roadway they came upon a small clearing on a flat protrusion from the slope. Numerous cigar butts, a small rag, perhaps used to clean a weapon, and an empty can of peaches in syrup, now beginning to rust from the rains, were strewn around the area. Marty bent down and picked up an empty Winchester .44-40 cartridge and rolled it in his fingers as he surveyed the scene.

  “You know, it’s been my experience that most crooks are lazy and unimaginative. They’ve used this place more than once. I’d wager they’ll come back here again the next time they set up an ambush. It’s the sorta thing that we can use against them.” He started down toward the coach, the others following.

  “Malcolm, I need to hire some fighting men. Preferably ex-soldiers, tough and reasonably trustworthy. Will you think some on that when we get back to Carson City?”

  “Marty, I don’t see how I can pay ’em.”

  “I’ll pay them out of my own pocket if I have to. I’m beginning to formulate a plan and I think we’ll have a good use for them.”

  Carson spoke up as they slid down the steep slope toward the road. “I’ve not been in the army, but I’m ready to sign on with you.”

  “You’ve proven to me that you’re man enough to ride by my side,” Marty answered. He grinned. “Just don’t tell Colleen that I agreed.”

  “Dang it, Marty,” Carson sputtered, but the laughter of the others shut him up before he could say any more.

  Malcolm and Carson climbed back into the coach and Marty and Squint took their places on top. The mule skinner snapped the lines against the rumps of the mules and they were under way again. The rest of the trip was uneventful although they passed several steep inclines where an ambush could have easily been sprung. Marty kept his eyes busy scanning the cover for danger, while Squint cussed the mules every mile of the trip. Carson had his rifle out and was carefully watching his side of the road as well. Marty nodded in satisfaction. The boy was definitely beginning to prove himself a worthy ally.

  Finally, about seven hours after they left Carson City, the stage crested a small hill and the mining boomtown of Virginia City lay before them. The main street cut across the flattened hilltop, and was lined with buildings constructed of logs or cut planks. On either side of the main street ran several side streets, most fronted with houses made of canvas or logs, green lumber, or creek stone, mortared with mud. Beyond the three dirt streets that ran north to south, most of the buildings and homes were scattered haphazardly about the hillsides, which sloped away on either side of the plateau upon which the town was built.

  The buildings on Main Street held stores, shops, hotels, a theater, and several offices of mining companies, but saloons and bawdy houses made up most of the buildings. All seemed open for business and business was apparently good.

  The stage clattered down the main street to a large livery barn at the north end of the town, where Squint pulled the stage to a stop. A grizzled man with white hair and chin whiskers walked out, his thumbs hooked in his suspenders.

  “Why, hallo thar, Squint. I weren’t expectin’ a stage arrival today. How ya feelin’? I heerd about yur bad luck.”

  “I’m good, Louie. How’s things in Ginnie City?”

  “About the same, I reckon. The fire’s still burnin’ in the Comstock. Ain’t been an ounce of gold or silver taken outa there in a month now. George Hearst was by a couple a’ days ago. He’s lookin’ fer them pumps to pump out the Little Bill Mine. Any word on ’em?”

  “Ain’t heerd a thing, Louie. Mr. O’Brian’s in the coach. You can ask him.”

  “Do tell.” Louie hurried to the door of the coach and opened it for Malcolm and Carson. “How do, Mr. O’Brian? Nice to see ya agin.”

  “Thanks, Louie. I heard what you said. I reckon the first thing to get done is to see Mr. Hearst and let him know what’s goin’ on.” Malcolm turned to Marty. “You may as well come along, Marty. He’ll wanna look you over anyways.”

  Chapter 16

  Meet George Hearst

  Marty turned to Squint. “Squint, you and Carson get the mail delivered and pick up any that needs to be delivered to Carson City. I’m going with Malcolm for a spell.”

  “What’ll we do after that?” Carson asked.

  “Have Squint show you around Virginia City. It’s a real, live boomtown. I doubt you’ve seen one before, have you?”

  Carson’s eyes brightened at the invitation. “Say, that’s a good idea. Where do you want us to meet up with you and when?”

  Malcolm spoke up. “Meet us at the hotel dining room about seven.” He pointed at a three-story structure across the street. “Over there.” A prominently displayed and brightly painted sign proclaimed VIRGINIA HOTEL.

  “I’ll invite Mr. Hearst to join us for supper, if he ain’t already et yet.” Malcolm motioned to Marty. “Come on, Marty, we’ll start at his office. Iffen he ain’t in one of his mines, he’ll probably be there.”

  Malcolm led Marty across the street, past the hotel to a nondescript, two-story building, which held second-story offices above a land investment company that took up the entire first floor. The building had a brick facade, but the sides were raw lumber, whitewashed to hide their greenness. Sap had oozed out of the freshly cut, nondried lumber, giving the wood a rippled texture.

  Malcolm led the way up the interior stairs to a door with a half panel of frosted glass that proclaimed COMSTOCK MINING COMPANY. Beneath it, painted in smaller letters, read GEO. HEARST, OWNER AND PRESIDENT. Malcolm stuck his head inside the office. A male clerk was sorting papers on a large desk at the far end of the room. “Mr. Hearst in, James?”

  “Oh, hello, Mr. O’Brian. Nope, I think he’s over at the Silver Dollar, playing faro. He said he was feeling lucky today.”

  “Come on, Marty, I know where that is.”

  As they exited the building, Marty made an observation. “Seems like Mr. Hearst has enough money to gamble, doesn’t it?”

  “To be honest, Marty, I doubt it. But let me tell you, it’s almost like magic. When he gets that lucky feelin’ he’s unbeatable. I’ve seen him do the same thing before. Believe me, you’re gonna be amazed. He’ll come outa there with a wad of money that’d choke a horse.”

  “If that’s true, I wish some of it would rub off on me.”

  “Me too. Unfortunately, it don’t seem to work that way.”

  “The Silver Dollar Saloon is down the street that way. Follow me.”

  Malcolm swung open the twin batwing doors of the saloon and stepped through, followed by Marty. The place was filled with miners killing time and spending their money until their next shift underground. Malcolm looked around and then gestured with his thumb. “There he be, at the far table.” He pushed his way through the crowded room, stepping around both men and gaming tables, Marty in tow.

  As they reached the faro table, Marty got a good look at George Hearst. The mine owner was
tall, lean, and worn, his dark hair and full beard liberally sprinkled with gray. His dark eyes were intense and his whole focus was on the cards being rolled over by the dealer.

  The dealer, short, bald, and overweight, intoned the play in a calm, almost bored manner. “Queen is the winner. Congratulations, Mr. Hearst, you are a winner.” He pushed over a pile of chips, which Hearst added to a much larger one. The dealer urged the players, “Place your bets, gentlemen.”

  Malcolm put a restraining hand on Marty’s arm. “I don’t think we’ll interrupt the game right now, Marty. George really doesn’t like to split his attention when he’s gambling.”

  Marty smiled and nodded in agreement. “I understand. It’s fun to watch a winner at work.”

  Hearst played on, losing some and winning more. Suddenly, a drunken miner shoved his way to the playing table and slapped down several bills, scattering some of Hearst’s chips across the table. “Say,” he slurred in a drunken tone, “this table is hot. Let me git in on the action.”

  The dealer quickly gathered Hearst’s chips and put them back in front of the offended gambler. “Sorry, Mr. Hearst,” the dealer said softly to Hearst.

  “Not your fault, Joe. Cash me out, if you please.”

  The dealer quickly complied and Hearst stuffed the money in his inside coat pocket and turned away from the table. “Come on, Phil.” He spotted Malcolm and Marty. “Why, hello there, Malcolm. Didn’t expect to see you here. You bring a stage in?”

  “Sure did, George. We need to talk. Had your supper yet?”

  “Have any trouble?”

  “Nope, and that’s another reason I wanted to see you.”

  “All right, let’s talk. I’d like for my chief engineer, Phillip Diedesheimer, to join us for dinner if it’s all right. I’m buying. I just won big at the tables. I don’t know if you saw or not.”

  “Fine, George. I want to introduce you to my new head of security, Marty Keller, as well. Marty, meet George Hearst. He’s gonna be the richest man in the Comstock someday.”

  Marty shook the offered hand. Hearst had a grip as hard as the rock he dug the silver ore from, and his engineer’s was even harder, if that was possible.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hearst, Mr. Diede. . . .”

  The mining engineer smiled. “Please to call me Phil. No von can say my last name, except Herr Hearst.”

  “You just over here from Germany, Phil?” Marty gave him a friendly smile.

  “Ya, about two years now.”

  “I spent the winter a couple a years ago in a gold mine in California. Drilled a lot of holes, but didn’t find much yellow stuff.”

  “I hired Phil to figure out some way of improving my timbering process in the mines,” George Hearst broke in. “He says he has an idea. Come on, let’s go eat. I’m starved. Where do you want to eat, Malcolm?”

  “I promised my driver and nephew that we’d meet at the dining room at the Virginia. That all right with you?”

  “Sure. Their food is as good as any in town, I guess.”

  The four men were silent as they made their way to the hotel. The boardwalks were crowded with pedestrians, mostly miners, but some businessmen and a few ladies of the evening getting ready to start their trade for the night. They trooped into the café and were shown seats at one of the tables to the rear. All four ordered the special, roast beef and potatoes, then settled back to await their meal.

  As they waited, a nondescript man with slicked-back, thinning blond hair and a wispy mustache sauntered by on his way out. He glanced at the four and slightly nodded his head in greeting. Flashing a shallow smile, he moved on, his walk purposeful. The smile never reached his eyes, Marty noticed.

  “Who was that?” he questioned.

  “That’s Ranson Stoddard, owns the Gould and Curry Mines. He’s an ambitious bastard. He’s made several inquiries about buying my two best mines, the Comstock and the Little Bill. I have a suspicion he’s behind the problems I’ve been having. I just can’t prove it, unfortunately.”

  “You talking about the fire in your mine shaft?” Marty asked.

  “That and other things. Coupled by the fact that I can’t get any freight in from the railhead at Reno except through Malcolm here. And someone seems intent on driving him out of business.”

  “Marty’s gonna help me with that, George. He’s makin’ plans right now.”

  “Oh?” Hearst looked expectantly.

  “I don’t have anything exotic in mind, Mr. Hearst. Just to have more men, and more guns, and then put them out of business, permanently.”

  “Sounds good to me. Them pumps, Malcolm. Any word on when they’re gonna arrive?”

  “Nope, not yet. Any day now, I suppose.”

  The food arrived and the four men dug in, not saying much until they were working on their after-dinner coffees.

  “Mighty good chow, for a change,” Hearst announced. “Now, Malcolm, what can I do for you?”

  “I need some money, George, not much. Just enough to hire a fightin’ crew for Marty here. You make any money at the faro table tonight?”

  “Better than five thousand.” Hearst chuckled. “Didn’t think I’d be losin’ it so quickly, though.”

  “I don’t need it all. Maybe a couple of thousand?”

  “All right. Anything else?” He looked at Marty.

  “I just had an idea. Mr. Hearst, Malcolm tells me you’re pretty well connected in San Francisco. That right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You have enough clout to get something from the army?”

  “Well, I know General Thomas, the commander of the Western Pacific. His headquarters is at the Presidio, in San Francisco. What did you have in mind?”

  “Is that Pap Thomas, the Rock of Chickamauga?”

  “The very same.”

  “My outfit went up against him during the late war. He’s a tough fighter.” Marty paused for a second, then returned to his train of thought. “I want to borrow a Gatling gun.”

  “What?”

  Marty nodded. “A Gatling gun. Is there a better way to put a lot of lead into some bad guys who are well hidden and have the drop on you?”

  “I don’t know.” Hearst looked around, as if to see if anyone was listening. “I’ve certainly got some contacts who might help.” He smiled. “If some of them knew just how deep I’m in the hole here in Virginia City, they might not be so chummy with me.”

  “Try, it might be the difference between winning and losing this fight.”

  “All right, I will. I’ll go to San Francisco tomorrow. If General Thomas will loan me one, shall I bring it to Carson City?”

  “No, to Reno, but don’t let anyone know what you’re traveling with.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot. I’m skating on thin ice now, believe me.”

  “You get your mines up, it’s a different story, though, right?”

  “Absolutely. We’re almost there, in both of my shut-down mines. The glory holes are close, I can smell it, every time I go down in the shafts.” Hearst sighed. “But first, I’ve gotta have those pumps and get the water out of the Little Bill and put out the fire in the Comstock.”

  “How do you get a fire in a mine, Mr. Hearst?” Carson asked.

  “It had to be on purpose,” Hearst answered. “We had a big pile of cut logs positioned on the bottom level to build timber bracing. Suddenly, it was on fire. The smoke and flames have spread to upper levels until a man can’t get in there to put it out without suffocating. It’s a mess.”

  “Why not do ’em both at the same time?” Marty asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was just thinking, you’re gonna pump out the Little Bill with your new pumps, why not just pump the water over to the other mine, flood it, and put out the fire, then pump it out? Malcolm says those new pumps are big and move a lot of water very quickly.”

  “By damn, that’s a good idea. Phil, we have enough hose to pump water from the Little Bill over to the Comstock?�
��

  “I can certainly order enough tomorrow, Herr Hearst.” Phil smiled heartily at Marty. “Dat vas a good idear, Herr Marty.”

  “If it works,” Hearst gushed, “I’ll give you a thousand in bonus, just for thinking of it.” He stood. “This calls for a drink. Come on into the bar, I’m treating.” He led the way out of the café, running into Squint and Carson at the doorway.

  “George, here’s my driver and nephew. May they join us?”

  “The more the merrier,” Hearst answered. He took a seat at one of the tables and motioned for the waiter to head his way.

  After the introduction, Hearst turned his attention back to Phil. “Now, Phil, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “The shoring, Herr Hearst. I tink I haf figgered it out.” Phil took a piece of paper and started drawing. “De shafts are in bad rock. It slab off, very bad.”

  Hearst broke in. “If we can get the shoring problem solved, it will save countless lives and enormous amounts of time and energy.”

  Phil laid the paper in front of them. It looked liked a line drawing of a honeycomb.

  “It looks like a, a, what?” Hearst asked.

  “A honeycomb,” Marty guessed. “One of the strongest structures in nature. We studied them in natural physics at VMI when I was in college.”

  “Dat it is. A honeycomb. Many times stronger dan vhat ve use now. It vill vork, I know it.”

  “If it does, we’re gonna need a lot of timber,” Hearst observed. “Much more than ever before.”

  “The mountains are full of trees,” Marty ventured. “Virgin lumber by the hectares. If it works, it will be worth it.”

  “By Jehovah,” Hearst gushed, “this has been a most profitable exchange. Solutions to my problems one after the other. By damn, I’m feelin’ lucky again. I’m gonna go back and take some more money from the Silver Dollar. Any of you want to come along?”

  Marty and the others bowed out and excused themselves. As they walked back to the stage barn, Malcolm was quiet. “Do you think George can get a Gatling gun?” he asked Marty.