by Tim Champlin
Just then there was a knock on the door, and Curt, Wiley, and Cathy walked in. "A little nourishment for the patient," Wiley announced, sweeping a white linen cover off the tray he was carrying. "Steak, taters, corn—the whole thing."
Mortimer managed a wan smile. "Thanks. I really appreciate it. But I'm not too hungry just now."
"Well, eat what you can, and we'll take care of the rest." Wiley propped the tray on a pillow on Floyd's lap.
While he picked at the food and drank a little of the coffee, I briefed the three on what Mortimer had told me. Mortimer added a comment now and then.
"There's one other thing I haven't mentioned," Mortimer said, finally pushing the tray aside. "And I may need your help keeping an eye on this while I'm laid up. Over the past few months I've discovered that one particular room in the Grand Central is occupied off and on by one of Stumpy's gang. I thought I recognized the man in the saloon one night. To be certain, I hired K.J. to deliver a newspaper to his room to see if he had a scar on his upper arm. When he checked out, I followed him. Tracked him for two days in the hills. I don't know if he knew he was being followed, or if he took a roundabout way just as a precaution, but I finally lost him not more than ten miles from Deadwood."
"That must have been when I was looking for you. Stoudt left town, at the same time, because I was looking to interview him when I couldn't find you."
"I was pretty disgusted when I lost him. He just vanished. One minute he was there, and the next minute he was gone. He went over a ridge, and I came over the same ridge maybe a half-mile back of him, and he wasn't there. The ground was grass and rocky shale. What little sign he left in that open valley just disappeared. Maybe an expert tracker could've followed him a little farther, I don't know. But he had no time to ride out of that valley or into any cover before I topped the ridge behind him. In fact, when I didn't see him immediately, I stopped in the trees for a while and just studied the valley. Thought he might be waiting in ambush for me. Although, for the life of me, I didn't see a place big enough to hide him and his horse.
"But, to get on with what I started to say … I got back to town and got to checking around quietly. Had to 'borrow' the registration book at the Grand Central late one night and look it over. It looked like room 204 over the past year had been occupied more than twenty times by the same man, who signed in as 'Jason Thomas'—very likely an alias. Later, by a little discreet questioning of the day clerk I got some information I could piece together. He recalled what this Jason Thomas looked like. It was the same man K.J. had checked for a scar on his arm—a man I knew as Joe Grimes. No telling what his real name is. The man was a frequent guest in the hotel, and usually occupied the same room—two-oh-four. The clerk remarked that as much as this man came and went, he must be a traveling salesman. Said Mister Thomas was there so often, it probably would have been cheaper for him to rent a room by the month, rather than paying three-fifty a night."
He paused to take another sip of water before continuing. I noticed his florid complexion had paled. The light in the room was fading as dusk settled outside. I got up and lighted the lamp as Mortimer continued.
"The whole thing didn't make sense to me, and after puzzling over it for a while, I just dismissed it as insignificant. But then one night at dinner an idea hit me. I had to bribe the desk clerk to get the information, and give him some cock-and-bull story as to why I wanted to know, but he gave me the dates over the past year that Jason Thomas had checked out of the hotel. I compared these dates with Bundy's records and found that in twenty-two out of twenty-five cases, his checkout dates were either the day of, or the day before, a stage robbery."
Cathy, Wiley, Curt, and I looked at each other without speaking or breaking the spell that was settling over the room. Mortimer's usually strong voice was still intense, but growing weaker in volume as he talked.
"I guessed that someone had to be tipping him about the treasure shipments."
"I thought those treasure shipments were pretty general knowledge, and it was just that they couldn't stop the robbers."
"It was some of both. We tried several means of preventing any robbers getting the gold from the coach, and when that didn't work, we resorted to hiding the gold in various places or taking the gold out of the Hills in erratic, unscheduled, secret shipments, not necessarily on the coaches. But they were waiting for every shipment, no matter how secret we thought it was. Once, the gold was even hidden in small sacks inside the seats and wall panels of the coach. The driver told me they went right to it, as though they had put it there themselves. Somebody here in town has to be tipping Jason Thomas, who then rides out to wherever the gang is holed up and gives them the word."
"Why not just grab Thomas?"
"Can't arrest him without some kind of evidence of wrongdoing. And besides, he's just a messenger. We need to get the informant and Stumpy—plus whoever else may be behind it—or it will just continue."
"Well, if we can help you in any way, just say the word," Curt said.
"I don't know about the other stage line, but Wells Fargo is not going to make a treasure shipment for a week or two at least. Maybe longer. The claims and the mines are just now opening up for the season, so it'll be a little while before the gold starts accumulating in quantity. Then it has to be smelted into ingots. I'm working on a plan, and I may need your help, but it won't be until just before we're ready to make our first shipment. By then I should be well. But right now I can hardly keep my eyes open."
"Let's get out of here and let him get some sleep. He's lost quite a bit of blood," I said, waving the others toward the door.
"Sorry to be taking your bed," he mumbled sleepily as Cathy helped him slide down in bed and arranged his pillows.
"Don't worry about it," Wiley said. "I just checked with Missus Hayes, and tomorrow we'll be carrying you up there. That's where you'll get some real nursing." Wiley retrieved the tray and we headed toward the door.
"It's a little early for our bedtime, but Cathy and Wiley will be bedding down on the floor in here later to keep an eye on you," Curt told him.
But I don't think Mortimer even heard him.
CHAPTER 17
Two days later we were back on our claim in Thunder Valley, just as if five months hadn't intervened. Things were the same—the same, that is, with two exceptions. Instead of Fall, Spring was here in all its glory. And second, we now had company. Inevitably, other prospectors had found Thunder Valley, and claims were staked above and below our discovery claims, but no one had bothered our stretch of creek. Our sluice box had been damaged but with a few repairs was back in operation.
I didn't want to pry, but Cathy and Wiley seemed to have a considerable amount of money from their inheritance. They insisted on paying for all the supplies we needed, and settled up our bills at the hotel and the livery stable. They even bought us two more horses with saddles. I didn't ask them how much they had, and they didn't mention a figure, so Curt and I let it go at that. We were both pretty short on funds and had to depend on new gold finds to make our stake. Curt and I decided between ourselves to make sure we reimbursed the Jenkinses so the gold and expenses would eventually be divided four equal ways.
Before leaving Deadwood, we had taken Floyd Mortimer to convalesce at Mrs. Hayes' place. Even though she already had K.J., two orphaned teenage boys, one mistreated wife, and her usual supply of itinerant prostitutes under her wing, she welcomed the wounded drummer. She didn't want to accept any money for his care, but we finally forced it on her anyway and told her we would be back in a week or two to check on him.
It didn't take long for the fine, golden grains in the tail of the sluice to put Mortimer, Deadwood, the stage robberies, and everything else out of my mind. Our own cleanup started at about a half-ounce a day and varied upward to an ounce and a half. The word had spread about our valley, and shortly claims number two and three below our discovery were staked. I tried to get an idea of how well our immediate neighbors on the creek were doing,
but those above us were experienced, close-mouthed prospectors fresh from the Montana goldfields at Virginia City, and were not sharing any information with us. The party immediately below were neophytes from Iowa who were excitedly proclaiming every bit of color they panned. Hearing their cries of joy, one would think they had found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. In truth, it probably seemed so to them, judging from their dirt-poor appearance. They were as open and trusting and delighted as children. They often visited our camp and examined our gear and our sluice box, declaring that as soon as they had panned enough gold, they were going into Deadwood, pay off their bills, trade in their two bony mules, and buy some lumber to build a rocker of their own.
The days were warm and pleasant, and the nights delightfully cool. An early, warm spring had set in without the usual spring rains. After two weeks Curt and Wiley went out hunting and brought back a fine buck, whose meat we shared with the Iowans, who appeared to be half starved.
"I've lost all track of time since we've been back out here," Wiley declared as we sat around our campfire the night after they had returned from their successful hunt. "What day of the week is it, anyway?"
"Friday, I think," Cathy replied, staring into the fire and apparently doing some mental calculations. "And this is late April, but I'm not sure of the date. We should probably get back to town and check on Mister Mortimer."
"I know," Curt replied. "He oughta be pretty well recovered by now. How much gold have we accumulated so far?"
"It was right at twenty-six and a half ounces when I weighed it last night," Wiley replied. "But I doubt if we got even a half ounce today. I hope it's not beginning to play out." He grinned. "Just when all this shoveling has about gotten me into shape."
"It's so pleasant out here, I almost hate to go back," Curt said, poking at the fire with a stick. He caught the end of the stick afire and proceeded to light his pipe. We were all bathed in a red glow that reflected off the white tent wall a few feet behind us.
"We may not want to go back, but if Stumpy McCoy's gang isn't stopped, we'll probably not get our gold out of the Hills safely," I said.
"We're not being paid to chase robbers," Wiley grumbled.
"Maybe not, but Mortimer told me there was a reward for anyone who helps catch, kill, or convict whoever's behind it. He's not eligible for the reward himself, since he's a Wells Fargo employee."
"How much reward?" Wiley asked. "I may get a little more public-spirited if it will fatten my poke."
"One thousand dollars, gold."
"Count me in," Wiley decided. "Unless there's a chance I'll get my hide ventilated."
"Mortimer mentioned he had a plan in mind, but he didn't elaborate," Curt said.
"And we did promise to help him," Cathy added, "even when there was no mention of a reward."
"Why don't we go into town tomorrow, then?" Curt suggested. "We can take our gold in for smelting."
"All right by me. Think there's any need for one of us to stay behind to guard against claim jumpers?"
"Aw, to hell with that," Wiley said. "If anyone jumps this claim, they'll have to work just as hard as we did to get a little bit of gold. Besides, we'll probably only be gone a couple of days. Those Iowans below us seem like honest folk. We could ask them to keep an eye on it for us. Maybe even pay them a little for their trouble."
"Sounds good to me," I agreed.
By noon the next day we were back in Deadwood, had entrusted our gold to Wells Fargo, and were sitting with Mortimer in the Golden Eagle Saloon, munching on cheese, crackers, and pickles, and drinking beer. The sun was blazing down outside and a hot wind was blowing—more like late June than April. Even at this early hour, the saloon was about half full, and Burnett was busy behind the bar, serving drinks and weighing out dust. "Yessir, best nursing care I've ever had," Floyd Mortimer was saying.
"Told you she was good," I asserted. "Missus Hayes probably put some mountain remedy on you that was a quick cure."
"I don't know about that, but it sure as hell healed up fast and without any complications. I was up and around in a week."
"Any new developments on your research?" Curt asked in a lower voice, glancing around to be sure we were out of earshot of the next table.
"I finally got a chance to talk to Bundy the other night," Mortimer replied quietly. "And we concocted a scheme we think might smoke out whoever's behind all this."
"Tell us about it."
The tall, silver-haired agent leaned forward on both elbows and spoke intensely. "In order to have a chance of working, this plan has to have absolute secrecy. Right now, Bundy and I are the only ones who know about it, since we're the ones who made it up. Bundy is not even going to tell Sheriff Pierce about it, or wire his counterpart at our office in Cheyenne. Now, I'm going to tell you, mainly because I need your help. I'm healed up pretty well, but I still haven't got all my strength back. And, second, I know I can trust you four. Here's what we want to do: Nearly everybody in town knows that a good amount of gold has accumulated at the Wells Fargo office for smelting into ingots for shipment to the railroad. Whoever's waylaying these shipments knows that we'll have to take out a load soon. We want to let it slip that the gold will go out by wagon under four armed guards at night. We give the grapevine time to get the news to the robbers so they can lay their plans. Then, the evening the secret shipment is supposed to go out, we let the word slip to Stoudt, possibly by way of K.J., that there is no gold on that wagon, that it's really just a trap for the drygulchers. One or two of you must stick close to Stoudt and watch every move he makes after that. If he's innocent, there's no harm done and he's none the wiser. Also, I need to have someone keep an eye on Jason Thomas, or whatever his real name is. He's back in his room at the Grand Central. I may take that job since I'm the only one of us who knows what he looks like. If my suspicions are correct, Stoudt or Thomas should lead us to wherever the gang is hidden out. With any luck at all we should be able to grab the ringleaders."
"That all seems simple enough in theory," Wiley said, "but it sounds like it's pretty chancy. There are too many things that could go wrong. We're not professional lawmen. If some shooting starts, one of us is liable to get killed. And that someone could be me!"
"That's a point, Floyd," Curt said. "Why wasn't Sheriff Pierce brought in on this? He represents the law in Deadwood."
"Well, he's been in on all the other plans we've made in the past. Plans that didn't work. Even though we have no reason to suspect the sheriff of complicity, we decided to eliminate everyone who had been in on the planning in the past, just to be sure there's no leak from that source. I'll admit it's dangerous, but we're getting desperate. You don't really have any direct stake in this, so you're free to say no if you want to. But something's got to be done to stop these people. The company is suffering big financial losses, and we're even having trouble keeping good drivers and guards working for us. And last, and probably least, my job may be on the line. The only thing I ask, if you decide not to go in with me on this, is to forget we ever had this little talk.
"Oh, I forgot to mention that Wells Fargo has put up a thousand-dollar reward for the capture of the robbers. I'm not eligible for this, but you would be. As I said, we've got to catch the brains behind this operation almost red-handed. We have our suspicions, but we can't arrest anyone on suspicions. We can't identify the gold after it's stolen, because all they have to do to erase all markings is melt and recast it. Even if we only get Jason Thomas and Stumpy McCoy, we should be able to force a confession about who are the brains behind the scenes."
He stopped talking and took a deep draft of his beer, then swept the moisture from the bottom of his mustache with one quick motion and leaned back in his chair.
The four of us looked silently at each other, then away. We stared away into far corners, down at our hands or the floor, lost in our own thoughts and weighing our own decisions. I was thrilled by the whole idea, and I knew Curt was not afraid, but Wiley was having second thoughts
, and I was worried about the idea of having Cathy involved in this, even though I knew she was very capable of taking care of herself. I'm sure Curt had Cathy's safety in mind as well, and I could almost read on his face the thoughts of how this scheme might work or might go awry. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing more to think about. I was all for it, but I held my tongue, not wanting to influence the others. For a few seconds there was silence at our table, and I was aware of the background noise in the room—a low hum of voices, an occasional laugh, the clinking of a bottle against glass.
"Count me in," Wiley finally said. "Hell, this can't be as dangerous as some of the things I've gotten myself into in the past. And it may prove to be a damn sight more rewarding."
"I'll do it," Curt added.
Cathy and I nodded our agreement to make it unanimous.
"Good," Mortimer said. "Give me a day or two to get with Bundy and let the word leak out about this secret shipment. I'll contact you Thursday at your hotel."
The next two days we killed in town, catching up on the local news and watching the constant building going on. Hammer, saw, and axe were going all day every day. And good wages were being paid to skilled carpenters.
"A lot of these newcomers have no intention of grubbing for gold," Wiley remarked to me and Curt as the three of us stood on the boardwalk watching a new building going up across the street. The town was expanding up and down the gulch and into Whitewood Gulch. Williams Street above Main was being developed beyond Mrs. Hayes's spacious log cabin.
"You're right. They have a surer, steadier way of making a good living. If they don't get caught up the gambling, they'll probably be better off than most of the men here," Curt remarked.
"All the good places around close to Deadwood have already been staked," Cathy added. "The Homestake Mine over at Lead is already into hard-rock mining. I hear they've really struck it there."