Spur: Nevada Hussy

by Dirk Fletcher

  "Found a big man in the trail, Sheriff. He's got reddish brown hair, a moustache and mutton chops. Sounds like he's Spur McCoy."

  Three of them rode forward quickly and Sheriff Gilpin got there first. He dismounted and checked Spur.

  "Shot, not too bad. Must have lost a lot of blood." The sheriff used his own canteen to wash off Spur's face and then splashed cool water on Spur's hot brow. Five minutes later Spur came back to reality and shook his head.

  "What the hell happened?"

  Sheriff Gilpin laughed.

  "Glad to see you're still alive. You want to ride back down to the wreck with us?"

  Spur nodded and two deputies helped him on his horse. Once astride he seemed to gather strength. The sheriff handed him a small flask.

  "Got some special help," he said.

  Spur smelled the flask, tipped it and took three big swallows and shook his head.

  "That should either cure me or kill me. Let's go."

  He showed the sheriff where the three loaded pack trains were, and the sheriff took charge. He held them for one trip up the hill.

  McCoy sat by a small fire where coffee boiled, and watched the sheriff operate. The bodies of the soldiers were brought out of the car and laid out in a row. The rest of the gold and silver in the wrecked treasure car was brought out, counted and loaded on pack horses.

  With dawn, Spur felt better. He had downed two cups of coffee and eaten three chocolate bars the sheriff had brought along as emergency energy food.

  He told the sheriff about Tony Giardello, and led a team in to bring back the body, the pack horses and the extra gold from the dead mount. Giardello was tied over a pack horse and brought back to the base camp.

  The sheriff found the former camp and the three bodies, but Spur had no idea how the deaths had happened, except that one was by knife, two by pistol.

  Sgt. Anders was assigned to lead the pack train up the hill with the bodies. There were twelve soldiers, the engineer, Giardello and three from the robbers' camp. Belatedly Spur told the sheriff about the four men who had led the pack horses, and their bodies were found and sent up the trail.

  By ten o'clock that morning the sheriffs flask was empty, the coffee was gone, and they had the last of the silver bars loaded on board the pack horses. Spur weaved slightly as he sat his horse, and the sheriff assigned a man to ride beside Spur and hold him on the mount if necessary.

  It took an hour to wind up the trail to Virginia City. Half the town turned out to watch and a hundred special volunteer deputies were on hand holding every shotgun in town, lining the route the last quarter of a mile to the Julia mine. They had decided that the vault at the Julia was large enough, and that it would take a week to get the trains running again.

  Around the clock guards would be provided, five men for each mine, each with a shotgun.

  Spur had been taken directly to Tracy Belcher's house. She was there to meet him and Doc Burkhalter arrived shortly afterward to dig the slug out of Spur's thigh.

  Spur bit the piece of soft pine, spit it out and swore for two minutes until he passed out. Then Doc worked the bullet free and stitched the wound closed before McCoy came back to consciousness.

  Just as the doctor finished the surgery and Spur was taken away to his bedroom, the sheriff came in. He spoke softly with Mrs. Belcher.

  "There is no mistake, the Treasury men are still in town and we have counted the gold and silver bars six times. The total is accurate. We are missing fifty bars, that's one full pack train of those five horses that the robbers had outfitted. As you know, that much gold is worth a hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars. We need to find out what Mr. McCoy knows about it as soon as possible."

  SPUR McCOY CAME back to consciousness just before supper time, and Tracy Belcher stood by his bed waiting. She cooled his forehead with a damp cloth as she had been doing for two hours. He watched her a moment, smiled and cleared his throat.

  "Sweet man, you're back with us. We were all worried."

  "I was a little worried myself." He shivered as a tremor of pain scouted through his nervous system.

  "Hungry?" she asked.

  "I could eat half the tailings in Gold Hill!"

  "You must be feeling better. Drink this." She put a tray near the bed. On it were three glasses: one filled with iced tea, another with milk and the third with sweet grape juice which she had shipped from San Francisco in cans. "The doctor said you needed lots of fluid. You lost a great deal of blood."

  "Sawbones!"

  "At least he got the bullet out. I wasn't going to try.

  "When I went into a raging, screaming fit you would have done it."

  "Shut up and drink," she said with a soft smile.

  An hour later Spur had downed the iced tea and the milk. He sipped at the grape juice and it reminded him of the San Francisco country. The meal Tracy brought was recuperation food, as she called it, mashed potatoes and gravy, a slab of roast beef two inches thick and dripping red juices, three kinds of vegetables which Tracy had sent in by special freight on the train each week, thick slabs of wheat bread and marmalade, and scalding hot coffee.

  She kept the sheriff out of the room for another half hour, then she brought in the lawman.

  "Sheriff, you should be missing some gold," Spur said. "If he had a full load I'd say it's about fifty bars. Gold or silver, I'm not sure which, but don't worry. I know exactly where it is, and I know who stole it and I'll take you there, but I need a day to get back on my feet."

  Sheriff Gilpin chuckled. "Tracy tell you what I wanted to talk to you about?"

  "Nope. But I wanted to talk to you. If I hadn't been dumb enough to get shot we'd have it all settled by now."

  "Why not just tell me and let my men clean it upT"

  "This gets a little more personal, Sheriff. It's one arrest I want to make myself. Tell the Treasury boys all is safe."

  "They probably will be asking you themselves."

  Spur shook his head. "Not after that meal. I'm going to be sleeping the clock around first. Just leave any important messages with my pretty nurse over there."

  Tracy smiled, took the sheriffs hand and led him out the door.

  Spur watched them go, his head drifted back to the pillow and before he knew it he was asleep.

  He slept until noon the next day when dreams woke him. In the dream a deputy sheriff chased him, screaming that he was guilty, and should be punished. When Spur came fully awake he realized he had two men to confront, Rush Sommers and the traitorous deputy, whoever he might be.

  Spur sat up in bed and for a moment his head spun, then steadied. He looked at his leg. It was red and swollen under the bandage, but the cutting to find the bullet had not touched any major muscle bundles. Slowly he flexed his leg, bending his knee, then extending his foot. Yes, everything worked. He should be able to walk.

  Where in hell were his pants?

  He stood on the soft carpet just as the door came open and Tracy peered in.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, alarmed.

  "Looking for my pants. I've got a date with the sheriff."

  For five minutes Tracy argued. He was still too sick, he should be in bed for another three or four days. At last he convinced her that he needed to get some work done, then he would rest. She brought him clean clothes from his suitcase and he dressed. She watched, enjoying the reverse strip tease.

  "I'll satisfy your special needs later," Spur said.

  "Damn well better. You don't know what it did to me having you in bed and not able to take advantage of you."

  "Try me tonight," Spur said.

  It was hard to get the pants on. His leg hurt more as he moved, but he gritted his teeth and dressed. When he walked to the door he stumbled and she caught his shoulder before he fell.

  "Just need a little practice," he said.

  By the time he got to the front door he could walk almost normally, but each step sent a dagger of pain up from his leg. Tracy's small rig sat at the front door, a
horse in the traces, and the lines wrapped.

  "You want a driver?" she asked.

  He shook his head, touched her shoulder in thanks and walked to the buggy, blinking wetness back from his eyes, as his damn leg really started to hurt.

  When he stopped in front of the courthouse, he stopped a deputy and asked him to see if the sheriff could come out and talk. The tall, thin lawman was out the door quickly.

  "Climb on board, Sheriff," Spur said. "We'll go for a short ride."

  The sheriff sat beside Spur as they drove to the Consolidated California Mine.

  Spur tied the reins, left the rig directly in front of the fancy wooden building, and with only one small gasp of pain, walked into the office.

  Rush Sommers must have been watching out a window. He met them at the door.

  "Find the rest of our gold, Sheriff?"

  "Not so you could notice," Gilpin said.

  "But we know where it is," Spur said.

  Sommers looked at him sharply. "If you know where it is, why don't we have it?"

  "Soon will," Spur said.

  "Good. I can't afford to lose even a share of that missing gold."

  "We'd like to take a look at where you stored your gold before the shipment," Spur said. "Just a routine survey."

  Sommers couldn't hide his surprise, but he did well. He shrugged. "Sure, of course. Anything to help the law catch those murdering robbers. I can't figure out who would try something like that."

  They walked through the office and down a flight to the basement, then into the area where the locked steel doors stood. Sommers spun dials and soon had the big vault-like door open. They stepped inside the area dug out of solid rock, but walled in to look like any room.

  "This is the spot. All we have in here now are two silver bars. If you check the boullion number you'll see they were not part of the shipment we made the other night."

  "This vault looks a lot like the others," Spur said. He watched Sommers and the man seemed to relax a little.

  "Sheriff, maybe each of the mines should take back their part of the gold and silver bars for safekeeping," Sommers said.

  "Can't do that, Mr. Sommers. It's all under the control and protection of the Federal Government. It's the Treasury Department's responsibility."

  Something was different about the vault. Then Spur had it figured. It was a "new" lumber smell. Sawdust. There had been some new construction done in the vault recently. Why? And where? He looked critically at the walls. All were of the same construction, with vertical paneling over a stud wall, he figured. Single wall construction. The paneling had been painted and all four walls looked about the same.

  He concentrated on the three non-entry walls. Any of them could have been altered, moved, added on to. Spur studied the floor. It was of heavy pine planks, two-inch, he guessed. It had been varnished to preserve it. At the right hand edge of the floor he saw scratches.

  "Well, have you seen enough? Two bars of silver won't help much." As he said it, Sommers headed for the vault door.

  "Wait here, Sommers!" Spur said sharply.

  "Oh, what for?"

  "Something is wrong here, Sheriff. There have been recent changes made in this room, and I want to find out what they are."

  "This is a vault!" Sommers said. "What changes can you make in a vault, rearrange the silver bars?"

  "Maybe you'd like to tell us, Mr. Sommers," the sheriff said.

  "The only changes were made when we took out a half million dollars of silver bars and entrusted them to you and the Treasury people."

  Spur went to the three walls and pounded each with his fist. All had the same sound, all solid stud wall construction. He groaned as he went down on his knees at the wall and examined the floor. Sweat popped out on his forehead as Spur crawled around the three sides of the wall looking critically at the foor.

  At last he nodded, stood and shook his head. "Very neat, Sommers, and it almost worked. If we didn't know you were behind the robbery try in the first place, we would have missed this entirely."

  "What do you mean, behind the robbery attempt? I had nothing to do with that terrible attack."

  "We will argue that in court, Sommers," Spur said. "Because right here we're going to find the evidence that will convict you, and set your feet to twitching and jiggling at the end of a rope."

  Sommers tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. "Sheriff, what is this, some kind of a bad joke? I've shown you the vault, now I have a business to run, can we go back up?"

  "Not until Mr. McCoy is satisfied. Mr. Sommers, do you have a weapon?"

  "Of course, should I go get it?"

  "No, I just wondered if you had one on your person?"

  "No, Sheriff. I don't carry a gun in my own office."

  Spur leaned against the wall near one end. He pushed, but it did not give. He thumped it again with his fist, and about three feet in from one end it took on a more hollow and less solid sound. McCoy grinned and went back to his knees. He gave a short cry of pain, then looked at the floor. He traced a pattern for a moment, then stood.

  "Sheriff, I need a crowbar and a sledge, an eightpounder will do."

  "You have no right to destroy any of my private property."

  "You're right, Sommers, so you can sue me for any damage."

  The sheriff went to the stairs and called to a deputy he had posted there. He gave orders and returned.

  "What do you have, McCoy?" the sheriff asked.

  "Scratches, Gilpin. The wall is not nearly as solid right at this end." Spur took out his knife and slid the thin blade into a narrow crack between two of the vertical boards that made part of the paneling.

  "And see here. There's a crack from the floor to the ceiling. Then down here on the floor, look at this scratch. It describes a perfect arc from this point near the wall, to a point two feet into the room. What do you suppose made a scratch like that, so geometrically perfect?"

  The sheriff shrugged.

  "One thing it could have been was a nail or a small rock lodged in the bottom of a door that opened outward. This three foot section of the wall is a concealed door of some kind. My money is bet on our finding a secret room in back of this wall, and in that room we'll find the missing fifty gold bars."

  "Interesting," the sheriff said. "What do you have to say about that, Mr. Sommers?"

  Spur and the sheriff turned to look at the mine owner. They stared at a matched pair of derringers, both with large, ugly bores, and both double barreled.

  "I always carry buckshot in these, gentlemen. With four shots I can hardly miss. Both of you lay down your weapons on the floor. One at a time, and slowly. I'd hate to get blood all over my vault."

  "Let's talk about this, Rush," the sheriff said.

  "Talking time is over, Clete. Put down your weapon, right now."

  One six-gun lay on the varnished floor.

  "If you think you're going to shoot us, Sommers," Spur said, "remember that deputy is coming back soon."

  "Two or three bodies more, it doesn't make that much difference."

  "Then you did steal the gold? It is behind this wall?" The sheriff stared hard at Sommers.

  "I'm going to put my weapon down," Spur said. "Don't get frisky with those triggers." Spur bent, his thigh giving him problems. He groaned as he got down. He was farthest from Sommers, partly shielded by the sheriff. As he lifted from the bent position slowly, he pulled a four-inch knife from his boot sheath and held it along his leg.

  "Sheriff, I don't answer silly questions. Both of you move over there in the far corner."

  They walked slowly. The deputy called just then from the top of the steps. Sommers glanced upward. As he looked away, Spur raised the knife and threw it. The blade turned once and jammed hard into Sommers' right shoulder. He dropped the derringer he held in that hand and when it hit the floor it discharged. The inside of the vault was rocked by the explosion of the big round and birdshot bounced around the inside of the vault.

  Sommers screamed
in pain, looked at the two lawmen, then ran up the steps, the derringer in his left hand waving at the deputy.

  Spur grabbed his .45 off the floor and ran up the steps. The deputy lay on the office floor, his knees drawn up, his hands cradling his genitals as he vomited to one side.

  A male clerk stared in disbelief at the scene.

  "Where did Sommers go?" Spur demanded. The clerk could not talk, he just pointed through a door that led toward the back of the office. Spur raced in that direction. He felt a rush of power, of new energy, as if a great energizer had been released directly into his nervous system. He no longer felt the wound in his leg. He raced through the door into a supply room and then onto a porch.

  Across thirty yards of a dirt road, Spur saw Sommers whipping a saddle horse away from a hitching rack and around a hoist building. He vanished before there was time for a shot.

  Spur ran to the hitching rail, leaped on a gray that looked deep of chest and spurred the big mount around the same building. Sommers raced down the alley to the next street, then continued south, out of town.

  Sommers was not much of a horseman. He pushed the black at a furious gallop. Spur reined down to a trot, and watched the mine owner whipping the black for more speed. There was no place to hide in the desert-like, bleak hills of the six thousand foot level of Virginia City. No trees, no brush, only rocks and sand, a little soil and few houses spotted along the road.

  A quarter of a mile ahead the black faltered and slowed. Spur could see the mine owner lashing the black, spurring it with his heels, but the big horse slowed to a walk, then stopped, and turned its head in wonder at the rider.

  Spur picked up his speed now to a canter and closed the gap with the black. Sommers urged the horse into a walk, and then a gentle canter, then the horse wobbled from side to side, and suddenly stumbled and fell.

  Sommers leaped clear, rolled in the dust and lay there, not sure what had happened. He sat up shaking his head. Spur put a .45 slug into the dirt at his right side, then one to his left. He rode up and stared down at the man.