So Truax did know, or at least suspect, that his wife might be cuckolding him with Bogardus. Quincannon asked, “Is he also dishonest?”
“He is. Dishonesty is how he obtained his Rattling Jack mine two years ago.”
“Oh? A swindle?”
“Not precisely. The former owner, Jack Finkle, had it up for sale because of failing health — asking a fair price, I might add. Bogardus arranged two accidents at the mine, one that crippled Finkle’s son-in-law, in order to drive the selling price down to where he could afford it. Everyone knows it was his work, but nothing was ever proved.”
“The Rattling Jack is a well-paying mine, then?”
“It wasn’t until Bogardus struck a new vein six months ago. The old vein was gradually pinching out.” Truax’s voice was bitter; it was plain that he begrudged Bogardus his newfound wealth. “Now his ore is assaying at one hundred dollars a ton, so he claims. Half of what the Paymaster assays at twice the tonnage per day, but still substantial.”
“Is that why he needs a new freight wagon? To ship more of his silver?”
“Evidently. He lost his biggest wagon last week, I’m told; one of his drivers misjudged a turn coming down the pass road, his load shifted, and the wagon went over the side.” Truax said that last with satisfaction.
Quincannon asked, “Is Bogardus a native of Silver City?”
“No. Came here a few months before he purchased the Rattling Jack.”
“From where?”
“Somewhere in Oregon.” Truax frowned. “You seem unduly interested in Bogardus, Mr. Lyons.”
Quincannon smiled disarmingly. “Idle curiosity,” he said. “I fear I have an inquisitive nature.”
“Indeed.” Truax opened a humidor on his desk, took out an expensive cheroot, sniffed it, then picked up a pair of silver clippers and snipped off the end. He did not offer Quincannon one of the cigars. “Now then,” he said, when he had the cheroot burning to his satisfaction, “you wanted to discuss the purchase of Paymaster stock?”
“Yes. Are shares available?”
“Possibly. But you’ll pardon me, Mr. Lyons, if I ask how a patent medicine drummer can expect to buy valuable shares in one of the largest and most profitable silver mines in the state of Idaho.”
“Oh, it’s not I who is interested in purchasing the shares,” Quincannon said. “No, I am inquiring on behalf of the president of my company, Mr. Arthur Caldwell of San Francisco. You’ve heard of him, surely?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“A very important man,” Quincannon said. “He is a close friend of Mar. Charles Crocker, among others.”
Truax had heard of Crocker, one of the “Big Four” railroad tycoons who had been potent factors in the shaping of California politics and economy for close to thirty years; and the name impressed him. Interest glittered in his eyes again, ignited by what Quincannon took to be the spark of greed. “Mr. Caldwell is well-to-do, then?” he asked.
“Extremely. Stock speculation is both a hobby and an avocation with him; he has been quite successful.”
“Am I to understand that you act as his agent in such matters?”
“No, not at all. I am merely a patent medicine drummer, as you pointed out, although I do have ambitions, of course. I have scouted likely stock prospects for Mr. Caldwell in the past, and he has seen fit to reward my help with cash bonuses. I expect I will also soon be promoted to a managerial position with our San Francisco office.”
“I see,” Truax said. He waved away a cloud of fragrant smoke. “And you feel the Paymaster Mining Company would be a good investment for him?”
“I do, based on inquiries I made in town this morning. I spoke to Sabina Carpenter, for one. She told me she recently purchased an amount of Paymaster stock.”
“Yes, that’s correct. Five thousand dollars’ worth.”
Quincannon raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite a substantial investment for the owner of a millinery shop.”
“An inheritance from an aunt in Denver, I believe.”
“Ah, I see,” Quincannon said. But he was wondering if that was really where Sabina Carpenter had obtained the five thousand dollars. “Can you tell me how much stock is available for purchase by Mr. Caldwell?”
“Well, the original issue was twenty-five thousand shares, nearly all of which has been sold. I’ll have to check to determine just how much is left. However, I can tell you now that one of our large Seattle stockholders has expressed a willingness to sell at the right price.”
“How many shares does this stockholder control?”
“Let me see ... two thousand, I believe.”
“Do you know how much he would be willing to take for them?”
“He has said he would accept fifty dollars a share. Fair market value, I assure you.”
“You yourself own controlling stock in the company, I take it — you and your charming wife.”
“I do, yes,” Truax said. “Ten thousand shares. But the stock is in my name alone.
“Mrs. Truax has none at all?”
“No. Well, I gifted her with two hundred and fifty shares as a wedding present, but that is hardly a significant amount.”
“Do any of the other major stockholders live in Silver City?” Quincannon asked.
“No. They are all scattered throughout Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and California.”
Quincannon sat in speculative silence for a time. Truax, who seemed to be trying to contain his eagerness, took the opportunity to fetch up a bottle of Kentucky sour mash from a sideboard behind his desk.
“Drink, Mr. Lyons?”
“Well ... I don’t mind if I do.”
Truax poured one for each of them. Quincannon drank his without savoring or even tasting it; except for its low heat in his throat and stomach, it might have been bootleg hooch made out of tobacco and wood alcohol.
Truax said in greasy tones, “May I count on you to recommend the Paymaster Mining Company to Mr. Caldwell?”
“I will recommend that he consider it, yes.”
“Excellent.”
“He will make inquiries of his own, naturally,” Quincannon said. “And if he does decide to buy, I’m sure he’ll contact you directly.”
“I shall be delighted to hear from him.” Quincannon made as if to vacate his chair, and Truax said, as Quincannon had hoped he would, “Another drink before you leave?”
“Yes, thanks. Kind of you.”
He made the second whiskey last for two swallows. Then he stood and shook hands with Truax, who remained seated. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again before I leave Silver City, Mr. Truax,” he said.
“It would be a pleasure. Will you be staying long?”
“Not as long as I had expected.” Quincannon assumed a solemn expression. “The old friend I had hoped to see, Whistling Dixon, was killed last night.”
Truax’s reaction was nil, beyond a look of sympathy as feigned as Quincannon’s grief. If anything, he seemed disinterested — but that may have been feigned too. “What happened to the poor fellow?”
“No one knows exactly. He was shot sometime last night, in Slaughterhouse Gulch.”
“Shot?”
“Murdered.”
“Bandits,” Truax said immediately. “These mountains are acrawl with them.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told.” Quincannon shook his head. “It seems to be a day for unpleasant news,” he said. “I spoke to Will Coffin this morning; he told me the newspaper office was broken into again during his absence.”
Truax showed no particular interest in that either. “Was there much damage?”
“Little enough.”
“Those damned heathen Chinamen ought to be run clear out of the Owyhees.”
“So you said yesterday,” Quincannon reminded him blandly. “Poor Mr. Coffin. To compound his problems, his part-time printer, Jason Elder, has disappeared.”
“Elder? Oh yes, the opium addict.”
“You don’t know the man
personally?”
“Of course not. I don’t keep company with dope fiends.”
Perhaps not, Quincannon thought, but your wife surely does. He said, “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Truax. Thank you for seeing me, and for your excellent whiskey.”
“Not at all. My pleasure. Ah, you will be sending a wire to Mr. Caldwell right away, won’t you?”
“This very evening.”
“Will you let me know if you have a reply from him?”
“Right away.”
Truax beamed at him. He even stood up as Quincannon took his leave of the office.
Riding out of the mine yard, Quincannon fired his pipe and reflected sourly that he was accumulating a great deal of curious information but that none of it seemed to fit together into a useful pattern. Nor did any of it seem directly related to the gang of koniakers, with the probable exception of Whistling Dixon’s murder and the possible exception of Jason Elder’s disappearance. And now he needed the answers to several puzzling and related questions before he could even begin to piece things together.
Why had Helen Truax signed over all of her two hundred and fifty shares in the Paymaster Mining Company to Elder — shares worth better than twelve thousand dollars?
Why had Sabina Carpenter taken those shares from Elder’s shack and what did she intend to do with them?
Why was Truax so eager to sell Paymaster stock?
What, exactly, was Helen Traux’s relationship with Jack Bogardus?
And if Bogardus was as dishonest as Truax claimed, did that dishonesty extend to counterfeiting and murder?
Chapter 9
When he arrived back in town Quincannon went directly to the Western Union desk at the Wells Fargo office. It was too early to expect answers to his wires, but there was always the chance that Boggs had news of his own to impart. He found nothing for him when he arrived, however. He sent Boggs another wire care of Caldwell Associates, this one requesting information on Jack Bogardus, and then returned his rented horse to the livery and walked back up to the War Eagle Hotel.
In his room he lay on the bed and cudgeled his brain for an hour, without much consequence. Restlessness and hunger drove him out again. He ate a small meal at a cafe nearby, and when he was done it was early evening and the saloons were beginning to fill up with cowhands, miners, and townsmen. He did as he had done the previous night: drifted from saloon to saloon, taking a drink in each, engaging this man and that in apparently idle conversation.
The murder of Whistling Dixon was a favorite topic, but Quincannon picked up no new information or useful speculation on the shooting. He did learn that although Dixon had no real friends among the Ox-Yoke cowboys, he had most often partnered with a waddy named Sudden Wheeler; and that if anyone had known Dixon and his private ways, it was Wheeler. Quincannon had already planned to ride out to the Ox-Yoke tomorrow. Now that he had Wheeler’s name, it might simplify his inquiries.
Information was meager on other fronts as well. As far as any of the miners who worked at the Paymaster knew, the mine was still producing high-grade ore on the same steady basis as in previous years. The payload vein wouldn’t last forever, as one miner said, and it wasn’t as rich as it had been in the seventies, but he wasn’t worrying about his job. That being the case, it was unlikely that Truax’s eagerness to sell Paymaster stock stemmed from an urgent need for money — at least as far as the mine itself went. Any other motives he might have were well hidden.
Jack Bogardus was generally disliked in Silver, though not with the vehemence Truax had exhibited. The consensus seemed to be that he had obtained the Rattling Jack mine through dishonest methods, as Truax had claimed. He had been an abrasive sort to deal with personally and professionally up until his discovery of the rich new vein; since then he had mended his ways somewhat, lost his public contentiousness and modified his penchant for petty conniving. Now he was tolerated, especially in saloon circles; when he was in town for reasons other than Helen Truax, which wasn’t often, he stood drinks for the house.
He was secretive about the Rattling Jack’s new vein; he had built a stockade around the mine compound and allowed no one inside except the dozen or so men who worked for him. Quincannon found this secrecy of potential interest. Perhaps the man was only being overly protective of his holdings; but a fence might also mean that he had something to hide. It was a fact to be looked into more closely.
Questions about Jason Elder netted him nothing more than he already knew. Questions about the Chinese population in general and Yum Wing in particular were likewise unproductive. Aside from the usual prejudice against the Chinese, there was little animosity such as Truax and Coffin had demonstrated. The yellow men were tolerated in much the same way Bogardus was tolerated, and that included Yum Wing and his opium peddling. A few of the men Quincannon spoke to even seemed surprised that Will Coffin was being harassed. “Hell,” one man said, “them Chinamen is a peaceable bunch. Seems to me it’d take a lot more than a couple of editorials to stir ’em up to busting into Coffin’s house and the newspaper office.”
Quincannon, from his personal knowledge of the Chinese race, agreed with that assessment. It was something that had been bothering him. Either trouble ran deep and dark between Coffin and the Orientals of Silver City, or somebody else was responsible for the break-ins. The same person or persons who had ransacked Jason Elder’s shack, for instance.
Sabina Carpenter?
Looking for what?
When Quincannon left the sixth saloon he was feeling the effects of the whiskey, starting to lose his clear-headedness. It was dark now and the gas lamps had been lighted along Jordan and along the narrow winding streets that climbed the hillsides to the east and west. The night wind blowing down off War Eagle Mountain was chill; he walked into the teeth of it, to chase away the muzziness from the liquor.
On impulse he turned west on Avalanche Avenue, toward Sabina Carpenter’s millinery shop. He expected to find it dark, but it wasn’t; lamplight illuminated the second-floor window and the words painted on it: SABINA’S MILLINERY • FINE HATS FOR LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. Quincannon stopped across the street, behind a waiting buggy drawn by a sleek dappled gray, and peered up at the lighted glass. Nothing moved behind it, at least not within the range of his vision.
He stayed where he was for a time, waiting for his head to clear completely, debating with himself. Should he talk to her again? He felt a compulsion to do so, yet he also felt that it would be futile and that it would only arouse her suspicions; he sensed that already she thought him something more than the patent medicine drummer he claimed.
He was sure she was something more than the milliner she claimed.
A single horsemen trotted by, followed by a carriage with its side curtains drawn. When the carriage passed beyond where he stood he saw that the street door to the millinery shop had opened and a woman was coming out. At first he thought it was Sabina Carpenter; but then the woman picked up her skirts and hurried across the rutted street toward the buggy, and he recognized Helen Truax.
He moved out into the spillage of light from a nearby lamp. She stopped abruptly when she saw him; but after he tipped his hat and spoke to her, saying, “Good evening, Mrs. Truax,” she came ahead to where he stood.
“Mr. Lyons, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind my speaking to you this way.”
“No, it’s quite all right.”
Quincannon said casually, “Are you a friend of Sabina Carpenter’s?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Well, I noticed that you’ve just come from her shop.”
“We’re acquainted, yes.”
Behind and above her, the second-floor window of Sabina’s Millinery went dark as the lamp was extinguished. Quincannon held his gaze on it for a moment but could detect no movement behind the shadowed glass.
He said, “A new hat, then?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The purpose of your vi
sit tonight.”
“Oh ... yes, a new hat. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Lyons, I must be going. My husband is waiting at home.”
She stepped past him to the buggy, drawing closer the white shawl she wore over her dress. In that same moment the door across the street opened again and Sabina Carpenter emerged. Quincannon still stood in the light from the street lamp; the Carpenter woman looked straight at him and he was sure she recognized him. She hesitated briefly, then pivoted and hurried away toward Washington Street.
Quincannon hesitated too. But this was neither the time nor the place to try getting at the sense of whatever game she was playing: she would not respond well to being accosted on a dark street. And there was the matter at hand of Helen Truax. There was no telling when he might have another opportunity to speak to her alone.
Mrs. Truax was just climbing onto the tufted leather seat of the buggy. He moved over alongside as she settled herself; reached out to stroke the gray’s sleek withers.
“A fine-looking horse,” he said.
“Yes. My husband bought him for me.”
“He must be a generous man. I spoke to him at the Paymaster this afternoon, you know.”
“No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”
“A business matter,” Quincannon told her. “Concerning shares of stock in the Paymaster Mining Company.”
“What shares of stock?” she asked a little sharply.
“Why, shares that might be for sale.”
“To whom?”
“My employer, Mr. Arthur Caldwell of San Francisco. He is quite wealthy and his avocation is stock speculation. I often act as an unofficial scout for him. And the Paymaster would seem to be a good investment.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I understand you own stock in the company yourself, Mrs. Truax.”
A pause. “Did my husband tell you that?”
“Yes, he did. Sabina Carpenter also remarked on it.”
Another pause, longer this time; he would have liked to see her face more clearly. When she spoke again there was a tense, wary edge to her voice. “How would Miss Carpenter know about my Paymaster stock?”
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