Murder at Thumb Butte (A Steve Dancy Tale)

by James D. Best

“Nothin’ lyin’ about burns long, so we’re gonna need piles of dry scrub.”

  “I meant, are Indians a threat?”

  “The Paiute mostly trade, but there ain’t many around. Water an’ game’s better on the other side. If ya wanna worry, worry about rattlesnakes.”

  I had seen a rattlesnake or two, but so far I had avoided any formal introductions. Sharp’s warning reminded me to use my rifle barrel to jiggle the brush as I gathered branches. I didn’t want to surprise any creatures, especially poisonous ones. Fairly warned, snakes slither away. At least, that’s what I had been told.

  After we had groomed the horses, collected a huge stack of branches, and started supper, we moved our saddles close to the edge of the canyon to use as backrests while we watched the final setting of the sun. We sipped good whiskey, ate apples, and silently watched the last light play against the canyon cliffs.

  At dusk, Sharp asked, “What’re we doin’ here?”

  “I told you. We’ll see Governor Frémont and look for invest­ments.”

  “I’m not a prospector.”

  “Not what I had in mind.” I stood and grabbed my saddle by the horn to carry it over to the fire. While we had watched the sun set, the fire had burned down to embers, which were better for cooking. Sharp had a tasty recipe for camp beans, and I used my knife to start opening a tin.

  He plopped beside me and dug out the rest of the fixings from a saddlebag.

  “What do ya have in mind?” he asked.

  “A mine puts all your eggs in one basket.” I slid my knife back in the sheath, and handed the open tin to Sharp. “I was thinking of providing something miners need, something they’ll pay top dollar for. Let someone else take the big risk. We get rich no matter who finds the gold.”

  “I like takin’ risks.”

  “No, you don’t. You buy producing mines, and then you make them produce better.”

  “I’m a miner, not a lumberman.”

  “That’s one option. Mines need protection, men, lumber, trans­port, food, tools, supplies, lodging, and diversions for the miners.”

  Sharp looked unhappy. “Steve, I ain’t runnin’ a whore- or boardinghouse, buyin’ a saloon, or workin’ with a bunch of guards that are a whisper away from bein’ outlaws.”

  “Leaves lots of other options,” I answered.

  “Like what?”

  “Beef, horses, shop keeping, ore hauling, and lumber, to name a few, but I’d like to figure out a way to make money from engineering.”

  “Engineerin’? How?”

  “I have people in New York keeping an eye on things for me. I’ve got a couple of prospects but nothing firm yet. I’ll know better after I talk to Frémont.”

  “Frémont? What the hell does that ol’ codger know ’bout engineerin’?” Sharp had all of his ingredients in the beans and stirred the pot when it began to simmer.

  “Nothing, but he still has connections in New York City.”

  Sharp stopped stirring and gave me a hard look. “Steve, yer not makin’ sense. We’re ridin’ into a bleak desert territory to get connected to engineers in a bustlin’ city thousands of miles away? Hell, we coulda rode to New York in a Pullman sippin’ Champagne, eatin’ good beef, and pinchin’ cute derrières. What the hell are we doin’ out here?”

  “Fixing beans … and getting a look at Powell’s canyon.”

  Sharp sputtered. “Steve, yer not tellin’ me everything. There ain’t nothin’ we can do ’bout engineerin’ in the territory that we couldn’a done better in Leadville.”

  I sat on my haunches and wondered what to say. “I’ve got an idea. It may be dumb, but I didn’t want you squashing it without a fair hearing.”

  “What’s Prescott got to do with this?”

  “A man.” I stood.

  “Someone other than Frémont?”

  “Yes.” I hesitated. “What I told you about Frémont and the Dancy family is true. Frémont can help, but the real key is another man. I need to get to Prescott to find him.

  “Who is he?”

  “Jeff, I’d rather not say.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because it’s someone you hate.”

  Chapter 7

  We sat on our horses, looking down a rise to a rough encampment along the Colorado River. Actually, the Colorado looked less like a river than a relentless mud slide. We had spent three days slowly skirting the cliffs that descended into the Grand Canyon. I had enjoyed every minute, but Sharp had remained sullen ever since I refused to tell him who we were going to meet in Prescott.

  “That’s Lees Ferry,” Sharp said. “The only means to cross the river for hundreds of miles in either direction.”

  “Looks desolate.”

  “Wait till ya get to the other side: empty land as far as ya can ride for days. I suggest ya stay on this side of the ferry until someone comes along headin’ fer Prescott.”

  I turned in my saddle to look at Sharp. “That sounds like you’re not coming with me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Jeff—” I didn’t have an argument.

  “If I see Elisha Campbell, I might kill him. It’s best we part ways right here.”

  He had figured it out. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Sharp and I had spent untold hours talking about our respective histories, and despite his telling me about numerous bad characters in his life, there had been only one who had made his voice quiver in anger. Elisha Campbell had been Sharp’s partner when he ran an import agency in New York City. While he was on a buying trip in South America, Campbell had exercised an innocuous turpitude clause that he had buried in a long partnership agreement. The clause protected each partner against grossly dishonest or immoral behavior on the part of the other partner. Campbell not only used it to take control of the partnership but had also besmirched Sharp’s reputation to such an extent that he could no longer work in the import business or find himself welcomed in polite society.

  I looked down at Lees Ferry. “What did he accuse you of?”

  Sharp had never told me the specifics, and he hung fire for so long that I thought he still wouldn’t.

  Finally, he said, “He accused me of importin’ young boys to satisfy rich old men with a taste for that kinda entertainment.”

  Keeping my voice even, I asked, “How did he make it stick?”

  “He had a madam in the Bowery testify that she got her boys from me. The hearin’s were in all the papers while I was out of the country an’ couldn’t defend myself.” He shook his head. “Years later—after I had left New York—I discovered how Campbell happened on this way to grab control of our company.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, unbeknownst to me, Campbell was supplyin’ the whole East Coast with children for whorehouses. That’s how he put together such a tight case against me. He had lawmen an’ city officials in his pocket, an’ no shortage of witnesses from the business … if ya’re sick enough to call it that.”

  “Do you know how he got involved with Cornelius Vander­bilt?”

  Sharp abruptly turned in his saddle to face me. “The Com­modore?”

  “No, his ne’er-do-well son, Corny.”

  “Campbell an’ a Vanderbilt?” Sharp shook his head. “Sounds like him. He always sidled up to power.”

  “Odd choice of words.”

  “Why odd?’

  “Power. This is about electricity. Through Vanderbilt, Campbell has become a shareholder in the Edison Electric Light Company.”

  “What’s that got to do with … ?”

  Sharp swung down from his saddle and led his horse over to some sparse grass. I followed suit, and for a long spell, the only sound on that barren ridge was the munching of horses, punctuated by an occasional snort or tail swish.

  Sharp had been standing with his back to me, and when he turned around, he wore the hugest grin I had ever seen on his face. “Does it work?” he asked.

  “Yes. Well … soon. Last December, Edi
son showed off his invention by illuminating the Menlo Park buildings, but that test was only in a laboratory. He says he’s close to taking his lighting scheme worldwide.” I could see that Sharp had already grasped the significance, but I added, “Edison said he’s going to make electricity so cheap, only the rich will burn candles.”

  “He built an electric motor too,” Sharp said.

  That took me aback. “You know about this?”

  “Hell, I get newspapers in Belleville. Maybe not new, but not all that old … and I have friends that send me letters. I knew about it but thought people were exaggeratin’. That’s been known to happen, ya know.”

  “I’ve got someone pretty close to Edison, and I’ve been trading telegraphs and letters all winter. It’s true, all right … and everything’s not been in the papers. Since December, he’s found a better filament that’ll last over a thousand hours. His laboratory has invented dynamos, conductors, fuses, insulators, sockets, and switches. This is moving fast. Jeff, I believe it will revolutionize hard-rock mining.”

  Sharp watched the ferry cross the muddy Colorado. “Steve, why didn’t ya tell me about this?

  “Because I was afraid when you heard the name Elisha Campbell, you would bolt.”

  “Still might. Why is Campbell in Prescott?”

  “You’re going to love this: Campbell’s under investigation for securities fraud and possibly murder. Worse, for him, he’s been ostracized by the smart set. He’s hiding in Prescott and hopes to use Frémont to squash the inquiry before he’s indicted.”

  “Frémont’s a fool,” Sharp snorted.

  “I won’t argue with you, but he’s a legend in my family. Unfortunately, the ’ol Pathfinder seems lost when he leaves the wilderness. He was certainly misguided if he made friends with Campbell. I’ll grant you that he may be a political fool, but he’s still got powerful connections in New York City, connections Campbell hopes to tap so he can go home.”

  “Ya still haven’t told me yer plan. What’d ya got in mind?”

  “Right now, the only way to secure shares in Edison’s company is to buy them from an investor who was part of the original Vanderbilt consortium. If we get clear title to the shares, perhaps we can get a license, and if we can get a license, we can change mining all over the world.”

  After a few moments, Sharp said, “How do ya plan to get him to sell the shares?”

  “I’m not. I know the Vanderbilts, especially the Commodore’s son. Seems the son didn’t inherit his father’s business acumen. Cornelius issued a stock certificate to your dear friend, but Campbell fled before paying. Someone else has since paid Campbell’s marker and is now the legal owner of those shares.”

  “Ya ol’ scalawag. I’ll bet I know who that is.”

  I merely smiled in response.

  “Why do ya need to get the certificate from him?”

  “I have a certificate in my name, but it’ll be troublesome if Campbell returns to challenge my ownership. My lawyers say he could tie things up in court for years. They recommend I get hold of the document and destroy it so he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”

  “Steve, I know Campbell. He’s clever as hell, an’ not someone ya threaten with a gun. He fights in back rooms an’ courts. How the hell do ya expect to get the certificate away from him?”

  I tapped my coat pocket. “All the legal documents are right here. Cornelius got a judgment against Campbell and endorsed it over to me. The law will recover my property or provide me with a writ that says it’s been destroyed.”

  Sharp paced in thought. “How long ya been plannin’ this?”

  “All winter.”

  “Do Vanderbilt or Edison know your full intentions?”

  “No.”

  “Steve, ya got problems. Ownin’ a small piece of Edison Electric Light Company don’t mean you get an exclusive license to use the invention in mines.” He stopped pacing and looked at me. A small grin grew until it took possession of his entire face. “That’s why ya need me. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m the linchpin.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ya got people talkin’ to Edison already, don’t ya?”

  “Yes.”

  He paced some more.

  “Bright light in the depths of a mine. This is gonna be worth a lot of money … millions maybe.”

  “More. My engineers have already figured out how to use electricity generators to bring fresh air as well as light into the mines. Blasting and drilling efficiency will double.”

  “An’ ya need a minin’ expert to give the enterprise credibility.”

  “I do.”

  “But first, ya gotta get clear title to them shares.”

  “Legally, I’ve got title.”

  “But if Campbell gets back to New York, he can make big trouble for ya. Ya’d be forced to pay him off with big dollars. Best to find him out here—when he’s desperate. That way, ya can get hold of that original certificate an’ destroy it.”

  “That’s my thinking. If someone else gets possession, they could also contest ownership, especially if they claim to be an innocent buyer.”

  Sharp paced some more before saying, “Tell me ’bout this murder investigation ya mentioned.”

  “Old lady, rich. He chiseled the demented woman, and when she started screaming about it, she turned up dead. Campbell has an alibi, but police suspect he hired someone to do the deed. They’re not pursuing it very hard.” I walked over and put a hand on Sharp’s shoulder. “Jeff, I put Pinkertons on it. If I get proof, your old partner could swing from the gallows.”

  “If he returns to New York?”

  “We’ll figure out a way to lure him back.” Now I slapped him on the back. “Hell, if we have to, we’ll hogtie and ship him home.”

  Sharp nodded thanks. “By the way, how do ya intend to make electricity?”

  “Steam engine. We’ll roll a locomotive up the tracks to the mine head and use it to generate electricity. Or perhaps we drop off a boiler. Haven’t figured it all out yet, but I have engineers working on it back east.”

  Sharp took a moment to rub his horse’s forehead. “Let me see if I got this straight. Ya don’t own this invention, ya want to cut a deal with a crook in some godforsaken territory, an’ ya ain’t figured out how to make electricity.”

  I laughed. “That pretty much covers it.”

  “And I thought I liked risk!”

  “I saw you thinking. You know what this could be worth.”

  Sharp swung back into his saddle. “I do. That’s why I’m ridin’ with ya.”

  Chapter 8

  Prescott made Carson City look cosmopolitan. At the town’s center stood a two-story Victorian courthouse situated on a grass commons. The largest commercial building was the Palace, where we rented rooms behind the saloon. An outside staircase running along an extended arm of the building led to a covered walkway with access to rooms. The palace didn’t offer suites, but our rooms were large and clean, with fresh bedding. It had been four weeks since we had left Carson City, so we drank a quick beer and then took a bottle of whiskey to a bathhouse. Within short order, we had boarded the horses, secured adequate rooms, taken baths, changed into clean clothes, and gotten a little drunk. I was getting this routine on entering a new town committed to memory.

  The Palace saloon was grandiose. Shiny brass lamp fixtures accented the dark paneled walls, and mirrors the size of a bed reflected the light thrown from the hissing gas jets. Earlier in the afternoon, the saloon had been quiet, but by the time we returned, it had turned boisterous. My first thought was that I was going to like this place.

  Sharp and I leaned against the bar and ordered beers. As we waited for the barkeep to draw our drinks, I listened to a woman singing near a window at the front of the saloon. Her lusty voice easily carried through the large room that held at least fifty animated men. I noticed her hair billowed a bit and saw that the window behind her was open. Then a couple of
men yelled at her from the boardwalk. Without missing a note, she turned toward them with a seductive smile and a dip that exposed a generous amount of cleavage. Soon the men were inside admiring the songbird, swinging chilled beers in rhythm with the music.

  I signaled the barkeep to come over. I wanted to know who ran this establishment so effectively.

  “Whiskey?” he asked.

  “Not yet. I’m Steve Dancy and this is Jeff Sharp.”

  He offered his hand. “Lew Davis. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “Could you tell me who owns this establishment?”

  “Bob Brow.” The barkeep pointed. “He’s over there, keeping an eye on the gaming tables.” He gave me a curious but unchallenging look. “Complaint?”

  “Not a one. I want to talk to him about business.”

  “Bob will talk your ear off about business—unless you want him to put money into some dumb scheme.”

  “Got my own money.”

  “Then sidle up to him. You’ll find him agreeable.”

  Jeff and I waved thanks with our beer tankards and approached Brow, who stood behind a poker table, watching the play. I started to walk up to him, but Sharp put a restraining hand on my forearm.

  “Don’t walk behind the players. Ya might get yerself in a needless fight.”

  I caught Brow’s eye and nodded in a friendly manner. “Mr. Brow, may we speak with you?”

  He immediately came over, extending a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Steve Dancy from New York, and this is Jeff Sharp from Nevada.” We shook all around, and I added, “We just arrived and settled into a couple of your rooms. You run a fine establishment.”

  “Thank you, and welcome to the Palace. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “We were hoping that if we bought you a beer, you might advise us on doing business in Prescott.”

  “I might.” He gave us an appraising look. “I prefer Irish whiskey.”

  “Then let’s order a bottle of yer best,” Sharp said with a huge grin.

  “My best is expensive.”

  Sharp made an open-handed wave toward an empty table.

  “Jameson!” Brow bellowed at the barkeep.