“Why ... didn’t she tell you abut the certificate?”
“What certificate?”
“Yours, of course — the one she found this morning. She said she intended to return it....”
“Well, she didn’t,” Helen Truax said angrily. “Where did she find it?”
“At Jason Elder’s shack, she said. Perhaps she intends to return it to Mr. Elder.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Well, she told me the stock belongs to him now. That you had signed it over to him.”
“That’s a liel”
“You mean you do still own it?”
“Of course I own it. My husband gave it to me as a wedding present. I ... I lost the certificate not long ago.”
“Ah. I wonder what Jason Elder was doing with it?”
“I have no idea. I don’t even know the man.” She seemed to be making an effort to control herself. Jerkily she took up the reins. “Miss Carpenter is a liar and very likely a thief. Thank you for making me aware of the fact, Mr. Lyons. Good night.” She snapped the reins and the gray broke into a smart trot, forcing Quincannon to step back quickly from the buggy’s front wheel.
He watched until Helen Truax had turned the corner on Jordan Street and passed out of sight. Then he went in the opposite direction, to Washington. There was no sign of Sabina Carpenter; he wondered if she had gone to her rooming house or if she were up to something else this night. He wondered also if the lies he had told Mrs. Truax would lead to anything revealing. A calculated risk: the time had come to stir things up a bit, even if it meant opening a hornet’s nest.
He walked back to the War Eagle Hotel and took Emily Dickinson to bed.
Virginia City, Nevada.
September 9, 1892, fifty-five minutes past noon.
Hot.
He moved along the dusty backstreet on the south edge of town, toward the rear of the printing shop owned by the Stanley brothers, Ross and Adam. With him were two armed special deputies summoned by Sheriff Joseph Armitage. Armitage himself, along with two more armed deputies, was approaching from the front. At exactly one o’clock, by their synchronized watches, the two groups would converge on the shop with weapons drawn and take the Stanley brothers into custody for the crime of counterfeiting United States Government currency.
He had arrived in Virginia City the night before, with the federal arrest warrant in his pocket. The warrant was the result of two months of investigation into a boodle game involving raised queer — greenbacks whose denomination had been increased from a low value to a high one by pasting a higher number over a lower and then overprinting a higher denomination on the face of the bill. The trail had lead, circuitously, to the Stanley brothers and their printing shop, and the evidence he had gathered had been sufficient to induce a federal judge in San Francisco to issue the warrant.
This morning he had shown the warrant to Sheriff Armitage and solicited his cooperation in making the collar. The special deputies had been gathered, a plan of action worked out. And now the moment was at hand. He felt no particular tension — he had made dozens of arrests as an operative of the Secret Service — and he had seen none in the faces and actions of Armitage and the other locals. The Stanleys did not have a reputation for courting trouble. No one anticipated any difficulty in competing the raid without incident.
The heat on the dusty street was intense; one of the deputies mopped his streaming face with a yellow bandanna. Somewhere a dog barked, a child laughed at play. Houses lined the street, most of them rundown, their yards choked with weeds. In one yard, a makeshift swing — a barrel hoop attached to a length of rope — hung motionless from the branch of an oak tree. In another yard, clothing and bedsheets rippled in the faint, dry breeze, and the dark-haired woman who was hanging the wash turned to gaze at them curiously as they passed. He barely glanced at her; he noticed only that she was young and pregnant, her belly swollen so large that it made her clumsy when she moved.
The rear door to the printing shop was twenty yards ahead now, just beyond where the street ended at an intersecting alleyway.
He took out his stemwinder, flipped open the case. It was one minute and thirty seconds until one o’clock.
He nodded at the two deputies; all three men drew their sidearms, holding the weapons in close to their bodies. The alleyway was deserted. The only sounds, now, came from out on the street in front — the soft whinny of a horse, the rattle and squeak of a passing wagon.
They reached the alley; the rear door to the printing shop was less than ten yards away. The deputy with the yellow bandanna wiped his face again and muttered something profane about the heat.
The time was one minute before one.
And the print-shop door flew open and two men burst out at a panicked run. The Stanley brothers. The one in the lead, Ross, carried a double-barreled shotgun; the other clutched an old Army revolver.
Quincannon had no time to think; he knew by instinct that Armitage and the other deputies had stupidly let themselves be seen making their approach. He threw himself sideways into the street just as Ross Stanley, wild-eyed with terror, emptied one barrel of the shotgun. The deputy with the yellow bandanna screamed and went down. Ross jumped the pole fence into the nearest yard; his brother started to run down the alley.
The second deputy, belly-flat on the ground now, shot Adam’s legs out from him. Adam flopped around in the dust, yelling, trying to bring his revolver up for a shot; the deputy fired twice more. It was the third shot that blew away the side of Adam Stanley’s head, but Quincannon didn’t see that. He was already up on his feet, attempting to draw a bead on the other fugitive brother.
Ross was running sideways so that the shotgun and its remaining load were pointed in Quincannon’s direction. He was almost to the fence separating that yard with the next in line, the one in which the pregnant woman still stood, frozen with shock, a white sheet stretched out in her hands like a flag of truce.
Quincannon did not see her. There was sweat in his eyes, made gritty by the dust; all he saw was Ross and the shotgun. He fired and Ross fired. The charge of buckshot exploded the top rail of the fence between them — harmlessly. Quincannon’s shot missed too. His second bullet was the one that knocked Ross over on his back and left him there unmoving, the empty shotgun canted across his bloodied chest.
The noise of the guns still echoed in Quincannon’s ears; it wasn’t until he got slowly and shakily to ha’s feet that he heard the screams, rising above the shouts and running steps of Armitage and his two men. At first, confused, he thought the screams were those of the deputy who had taken the load of buckshot. But when he glanced that way he saw the man sitting up, grimacing in silence as the second deputy knelt beside him.
He looked back the other way, beyond where Ross Stanley lay motionless in the near yard. Then he saw the woman, down on her back amid the remains of her wash, skirt pulled high on her thrashing legs, her cries lifting and falling and lifting again through the hot, dry air. And he realized with a sudden sickening anguish that his first shot hadn’t been wild at all.
He dropped his weapon, ran to her fence, vaulted over it. Blood on the front off her swollen stomach, pumping through her clasped hands. Her eyes open, staring at him, accusing him. Her mouth open, the screams coming out, sliding up and down the scale, scraping at his nerve endings like a carpenter’s file. Wetness blurred his vision as he fell to his knees beside her. He said something, an apology, a prayer, but she never heard him. She stopped thrashing, and her body convulsed, and he watched life pour out of her in a bright red spurt; helplessly he watched her die.
But the screams went on. Long after she was dead her screams went on and on inside his head....
He was sitting up in bed, soaked in sweat, staring blindly into the darkness. It was a minute or more before Katherine Bennett’s screams faded and he could hear the silence of the room, the distant rhythm of the stamps on War Eagle and Florida mountains.
But he could still see those e
yes, accusing him; still see her life’s blood and that of her unborn child pouring out between her clasped fingers. He groped the whiskey bottle off the nightstand, drank from it without bothering with a glass.
Murderer.
Murderer ...
Chapter 10
Shortly past dawn, Quincannon roused the night hostler at Cadmon’s Livery out of his bed. The liveryman rented him the same blaze-faced roan he had ridden to the Paymaster mine, and provided directions to Cow Creek and the Ox-Yoke ranch. Quincannon rode out of town to the west, on the heavily rutted wagon road to DeLamar and the Oregon border.
He sat stiff in the saddle, every now and then taking a drink from the flask in his coat pocket. The whiskey did nothing for the hangover pain in his temples and behind his eyes, but it eased the queasiness in his stomach, kept his hands steady and his thoughts dulled. The fresh bottle had cost him five dollars from the night clerk at the hotel; he would have paid fifty. He had emptied the one in his room sometime during the night.
The road followed Jordan Creek down-canyon, through Ruby City a mile below Silver and then Booneville — semiabandoned camps whose crumbling buildings appeared to be inhabited mostly by prospectors still scouring the old, once profitable claims nearby. At Quincannon’s back the sun rose and took the chill out of the early morning air. He barely noticed; the whiskey had long since made him impervious to the cold.
A mile above DeLamar he passed a pair of jerkline freighters on their way to Silver, cussing their mules the way ’skinners always did; otherwise there was no traffic on the road. DeLamar turned out to be a thriving little settlement, nestled in a cluster of little hills, its buildings strung along the sides of the canyon wherever a level place had been found to build on. Steep stairways climbed the hillsides and connected the houses, so that the whole place had the look of a white man’s version of an Indian cliff-dwelling pueblo.
West of DeLamar Quincannon climbed to a ridge, and from there he could see the grass- and sage-covered sweep of the interior basin — one of the sections of rich cattle graze — and beyond that, the Oregon desert and the Parsnip Mountains. The road continued to drop, coming out of the bleak ridges and valleys of the Owyhees; the scent of sage replaced the spicy odor of juniper trees. When he reached the basin he encountered a fork: left to South Mountain, the hostler back in Silver had told him, right to Cow Creek. He swung right, into one of the little creek valleys where two or three hundred head of Herefords and Texas Longhorns fattened themselves on bunchgrass. Not as many as there would have been before the disastrous winter of 1888-89, perhaps, but more than enough to sustain the ranches in the area.
Ox-Yoke was the biggest of them, he’d been told, and one of the largest in Owyhee County; he had no trouble finding it. The ranchyard contained a dozen buildings, including two bunkhouses and a separate cookshack, and a pair of corrals. Horses moved skittishly in one of the corrals; in an extension of the other, several cowhands were branding calves. The calves, separated from their mothers, were frightened and bawling, and as a result the cows penned nearby were in the same state. The commotion was what was making the horses skittish.
Quincannon dismounted near the horse corral, tied the roan, and crossed to where a big-bellied man whose stained apron identified him as the cook stood watching the branding operation. When Quincannon asked him where he might find Sudden Wheeler, the fat man jerked a thumb at the corral. “In there,” he said. “You want him, you’ll have to wait a spell.”
“I’ll wait, then. Which one is he?”
“Beanpole with the white whiskers.”
The ground inside the corral had been beaten down to a fine powdery dust; through a haze of it Quincannon picked out a tall, thin old waddy with a yellow-white beard and a shock of yellow-white hair, coated now with dust, poking out from under his laloo hat. He was standing next to a sagebrush fire, sharpening a knifelike tool on a whetstone. His gray shirt and Texas leg chaps were smeared with blood.
Quincannon leaned against one of the fence rails and watched another waddy on a fast little cow pony throw a lasso loop around a calf’s hind legs, jerk the animal off its feet, and then drag it to where the other hands waited. Four men fell on it, held it down and steady; a fifth, Sudden Wheeler, rapidly cut off the tip of one ear, slit and notched the dewlap under the neck, removed the horn buds on its head, and then applied a tar mixture to the wounds to prevent infection. The calf was a male; Wheeler castrated it, applied alcohol and more tar. Then the hot branding iron was lifted out of the fire and rolled against the animal’s flank. A cloud of gray smoke puffed up, mingling with the powdery dust to deepen the haze inside the corral.
The dust had got into Quincannon’s throat and it started him coughing. The stench of sweat, manure, burning sage, and scorched hide and hair aggravated his hangover, made his stomach churn again. He turned away from the fence, went back to where he had tied his horse, and took another drink from the flask.
He had to wait half an hour before the last of the calves had been branded and the foreman allowed the hands a rest before the next batch was shunted in. He used the time to question the fat cook and three other men who wandered into the area, but none of them could tell him much about Whistling Dixon. Wheeler was the man he wanted.
Most of the cowboys trooped to the water bucket; two others treated cuts and scratches with a milky solution made of alcohol and oil. Sudden Wheeler’s left arm bore a long, bleeding scratch, but he didn’t bother treating it. He drank a dipper of water, took off his laloo hat and poured a second dipper over his head to cool himself off. Away from his duties in the corral, he moved with a kind of determined slowness, as if he needed to conserve his energy; he was not a man, Quincannon thought, who would ever make a sudden move. Given the nature of cowboy humor, his nickname was inevitable.
Quincannon introduced himself as Andrew Lyons and spun the same story he had used in Silver City to explain his interest in Whistling Dixon. Wheeler seemed wary at first, but Quincannon put that down to a natural reluctance to deal with strangers in general and noncattlemen in particular. He seemed to have nothing to hide and he was not unwilling to talk once his pump had been primed.
“Sure,” he said, “I knowed Whistling some. Hard man to know at all. Didn’t talk much to nobody. Used to josh him about his vocal chords rusting up for lack of use. No sense of humor, though; never even cracked a smile.”
“When did you last see him, Mr. Wheeler?”
“My pa was Mr. Wheeler and he’s been dead forty years. Call me Sudden like everybody else. Four-five weeks ago, I’d say it was. Day he quit Ox-Yoke.”
“He hadn’t been working here in over a month?”
“What I said.”
“Why did he quit?”
Wheeler shrugged. “Close-mouthed booger, like I told you.”
“Do you know where he went when he left here?”
“Up in the mountains somewheres, I reckon,” Wheeler said. He had the makings out now and was rolling himself a cigarette. “Prospecting, way we all figured it. Wasn’t the first time he quit to go off hunting gold. First time he done it when he was needed, though.”
“Where did he do his prospecting?”
“Never talked about where. But he had him a section staked out, where he figured to make a strike. Them with the fever always do.”
“It must have been somewhere near Silver City. He was seen there during the past month.”
“Couple of the boys seen him too. Don’t get to Silver much myself. Don’t like towns.”
“Did he have any friends there that you know of?”
“Didn’t have no friends anywheres that I know of.”
“Did he ever mention a man named Jason Elder?”
“Elder? Who’s he?”
“Tramp printer who worked for Will Coffin at the Owyhee Volunteer. He disappeared a few days ago.”
“Hell. Man like Whistling wouldn’t have no truck with a tramp printer.”
“He knew him, though. I have proof of tha
t.”
Wheeler scratched a lucifer on his bootsole and fired his quirly. He made no comment.
Quincannon said, “People in Silver think it was outlaws who shot him. That what you think, too?”
“Must’ve been. Who else’d want to kill him?”
“I thought you might have some idea.”
“Not me, son. Whistling was a crusty old fart, and maybe a tiny bit crooked, but he didn’t have no real enemies. Never talked to nobody long enough to make hisself an enemy.”
“How was he a tiny bit crooked?”
“Played cards with him once. Never caught him at nothing but I wouldn’t play with him again. Nobody else would, neither, that knowed him. He was allus cleaning out some young snot figured he was born to lie down with lady luck.”
“Maybe he was a lot more dishonest than you thought,” Quincannon said musingly.
Wheeler said nothing. That sort of speculation was something he seemed disinclined to engage in.
Quincannon asked, “Did Dixon ever mention Oliver Truax?”
“Who? Oh, fancy-pants owns the Paymaster mine. Nope. Why should he?”
“No particular reason. How about a Chinese merchant named Yum Wing?”
“Now what in holy hell would Whistling be talking about a Chinaman for? You got some funny ideas, mister. Yes you have.”
“Jack Bogardus, then. Owner of the Rattling Jack mine.”
“Well, now, there you got something,” Wheeler said. “I recollect Whistling did mention Bogardus a time or two.”
“In what way?”
“He knowed somebody works for Bogardus.”
“Who?”
“Shirttail cousin of his’n, name of Conrad. Mean little booger with bad teeth and breath that’d knock a man over at twenty rods. Worked here a couple of months during the spring gather.”
“When did he quit?”
“Didn’t quit. Boss caught him butchering one of our steers to sell to the homesteaders and threw him off Ox-Yoke land. Told him he’d be shot on sight if he ever showed his ugly face around here again.”
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