by Tim Champlin
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the woman watching him. He finished, eased the hammer down between chambers for safety, and holstered his weapon. She smiled at him, holding out his scarf that she’d pulled from the hole in the door. “You might need this,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Thank you for keeping us dry.”
Ross didn’t try to widen the conversational opening. He would never see this woman again when they disembarked. He was tired and hungry and wanted most of all to get breakfast, soak in a hot tub of water, and sleep, in that order.
Forty minutes later Frank Moody reined them to a stop in front of the Virginia City stage depot. The three passengers climbed out to reclaim their luggage.
As Ross waited for the driver to unlace the rear boot, he ran an eye over the Concord. Covered with mud clear up to the windows. The horses’ legs and flanks were in the same sorry condition. Even Moody’s white linen duster was spattered with muddy water.
“Sorry about all that excitement, folks,” Moody said, handing out their valises. “But it turned out all right, except for a little scuffing of the coach.” He smiled as cheerfully as if he’d just arisen from a good night’s sleep. And well he might, Ross thought. The driver is in line for a bonus. Since Wells, Fargo guarantees every shipment, big or small, Moody and the guard had just risked their lives to save the company the loss of many thousands of dollars. Luck had played a part, as it usually did in any endeavor, but with these night shipments it was company property first, employees and passengers second.
“Well, I definitely got my money’s worth,” Ross said, shouldering his bedroll. He glanced up and saw the guard handing down the heavy canvas sacks of coins to two men standing in a light wagon. One of the men held a double-barreled shotgun. Destined for the vault of the Wells, Fargo bank a few doors away, Ross guessed. The company had been the first bank in Virginia City, before they bought the Pioneer Stage Line and added the express business.
It felt good to stretch his legs as he walked down the street, looking for a restaurant open early. He needn’t have worried. He’d half expected a deserted street at this hour, but every store and saloon was open; pedestrians streamed up and down the boardwalks, crossing the mud streets, stepping over or sloshing through puddles. The place was as busy as midday. Was it a weekend? He had to stop and think. After a few seconds, his tired brain figured out it was Thursday, May 3rd or 4th. Apparently Virginia City never closed down to sleep. Where were all these people going this time of day? Then he remembered the mines worked on two twelve-hour shifts. It didn’t matter to miners if it were day or night when they were hundreds of feet underground.
He saw several workingmen’s bars, but was looking for something other than pickled eggs and cheese that comprised the free lunch in such places. Hennessy’s Saloon looked pretty good. A few doors away a sign announced Chuvel’s Restaurant. He’d check that place later for a steak. In mid-block was Barnam’s Restaurant. As soon as he walked in, his nose identified coffee and frying bacon, and he knew he’d made a good choice.
Ross pulled up a chair at a small table, dropped his bedroll and small handgrip.
A chunky, mustached waiter with a towel over one shoulder sauntered up. “What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Bacon, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes…and plenty of coffee,” Ross said without consulting a menu.
“You got it.” The waiter turned up a heavy porcelain mug that was on the table. “Help yourself to the coffee from that urn over on the bar.” He walked away toward the kitchen in the rear.
Ross went to the bar and drew a cup of hot coffee. He glanced at a bucket beside the urn that contained a small silver pitcher of cream resting in crushed ice. He looked again. Ice? For a frontier mining town, this place had all the amenities. But, ice? He was amazed to find cream cooling here in midsummer. He added cream to his coffee, stirred it with a spoon, and took a sip. “Ahhh!” Just what he needed after that night on the stage.
He turned back toward his table—and collided hard with someone. The steaming coffee sloshed down the front of the man’s shirt and vest, and he jumped back.
“Aaggh! You clumsy bastard!”
“Sorry, mister. I didn’t see you.”
“Sorry, my ass!” He went into a crouch and yanked a sheath knife from his belt. “You scalded the hell outta me. Nobody does that and lives. I aim to cut your damned gizzard out!” Saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth and down his stubbled chin.
Ross felt his heart pounding, and he reached for his gun. But then hesitated. Judging from the uncoordinated movements and bloodshot eyes, the man was drunk. He’d been standing at the bar when Ross came in. Ross backed away, taking his hand off the butt of his Colt. “I said I was sorry. I’ll pay for your clothes, or to have your burns treated.”
“Shit!” The man lunged forward, thrusting to eviscerate him. Ross dropped the mug and pivoted away like a bullfighter. He was vaguely aware of a commotion in the room as others jumped up to see the fight.
The attacker missed and staggered off balance.
Thunk! The man fell like a sack of sand, face down on the floor. Standing in front of Ross, a slim man was holstering a long-barreled pistol. “Somebody drag him outta here and douse him in the water trough.”
Three patrons jumped to obey, grinning at the opportunity. One got him by the booted legs and two others under each arm and carried him out the front door. A hum of conversation resumed as the customers took their seats or turned back to the polished bar.
Ross regarded the man who’d buffaloed the drunk. “Much obliged. I could’ve handled that, but I didn’t want to shoot a man who was obviously too drunk to fight. Besides, I don’t think he even had a gun.”
“He hocked it long ago for booze,” the man said calmly. “Calvin Tibbs is a fixture here. Not a bad sort when he’s sober…which ain’t often.” He reached past Ross and picked up another mug. “Here, fill up and join me, if you’re of a mind to.”
Ross obeyed and followed the man to his table.
“People get up mighty early in this town,” Ross noted.
“Hell, most of them haven’t been to bed. In another hour, this place will be packed with miners coming off their shift at six.”
Ross noted the man wore a stylish mustache and goatee, longish hair, a white shirt, and vest. The walnut butt of a pistol peeked out from beneath the vest. A black frock coat hung on the back of his chair. He regarded everything with the calm eyes of a man in familiar surroundings.
“Sorry I didn’t introduce myself,” the slim man said, offering his hand. “Name’s Martin McNulty. But nobody around here calls me that. I’m known as the Sierra Scrivener, or just Martin Scrivener.”
Ross arched his brows.
“That’s my nom de plume. I’ve been the editor of The Territorial Enterprise since it came to town in ‘Fifty-Nine.”
“Gilbert Ross.” He gripped the editor’s hand. The handshake was firm. Ross then realized the black under McNulty’s fingernails was printer’s ink—not dirt or grease as he’d first assumed.
“A lot of people pass through this town every day, but I don’t recall your face. And I pride myself on remembering faces.”
“I just got off the stage from Placerville.”
“Ah, the Wells, Fargo night run made it through all right, then.”
“Mighty near didn’t.” He went on to relate the details of the attempted robbery.
The editor quickly retrieved a pad and pencil from his vest pocket and began jotting notes. “For the next edition.”
Just then the waiter arrived with a steaming plate of bacon, eggs, and potatoes.
“You got any hot sauce?”
The waiter brought a small bottle, and Ross dribbled a few drops on his eggs. “Too bland without something,” he said when he saw Scrivener eyeing him.
“To each his own,” the editor said, indicating his own food.
For the first time, Ross noted what Scrivener had before
him—a big slice of lemon pie with meringue. He was washing it down with a foamy mug of beer. “Both tart,” he explained. “They kinda go together. Mighty tasty breakfast after putting the paper to bed, and before I go home. They make the best pie here.” He gestured over his shoulder. “My compositor and one of my reporters are back there having a few beers. Trent Billings and Sam Clemens. Both about twenty years younger than I am. They like to blow off steam after work. I long ago tired of all that. Don’t have the stamina any more.” He smiled and sipped his beer.
Ross had met many people in his travels. He trusted his instinctive assessment of individuals, and he liked this man.
“What brings you to Virginia City?”
Ross explained he was a mine inspector. “I was here briefly in ‘Sixty, but we didn’t cross paths. Things were pretty wild and woolly then.”
“Still are, but in a different way.”
“I could use your help directing me to a few of the mines. Have to make a detailed report on the mineral wealth of the region.”
“Sure thing. Of course, you probably know about the Comstock and the Ophir, two of the biggest and richest. You figuring to invest yourself?” He regarded Ross with a steady gaze.
Ross shook his head while he finished chewing a strip of thick bacon. “The government couldn’t have hired a better man for the job,” he said. “I have no interest in that. Totally immune to gold fever and silver lust.” He grinned.
“A man in a thousand,” Scrivener remarked. He paused to attack the rest of his lemon pie.
“Where’d they get that ice?” Ross asked.
“Cut blocks out of the lakes in the mountains,” he replied around a mouthful. “Pack it in sawdust in local ice houses. Usually lasts till late summer.”
“And the cream?”
“Hell, since you were here four years ago, this town has everything that can be hauled over the mountains from San Francisco…Havana cigars, brandy, French champagne, oysters…anything and everything. A handful of millionaire mine owners have it all in their mansions. The rest of us have to make do with it in the saloons and clubs in town.”
“Hmmm…”
“John Mackay has a place you wouldn’t believe…full of things like marble statuary, Flemish paintings, Waterford crystal, walnut and mahogany furniture. As befitting a silver nabob, his doorknobs, ashtrays, cuspidors, and plumbing fixtures are all made of silver. The upper crust have their own plush establishments here in town, and they and their wives travel to and from in liveried carriages. If money can buy it, they’ve got it. And it’s new money. Most of those mine owners arrived here with one shirt and a pair of overalls. Fate smiles only on the favored ones.”
Both men had finished their food and lounged back in their captain’s chairs.
“If you’ve got time, I’d like to hire you to give me a tour,” Ross said.
Scrivener was silent for several seconds. Finally he said: “You have any experience with that Navy Colt you’re packing?”
“Some. But only in self-defense.”
“Then I’ll trade you. I’ll take you on a thorough tour, if you’ll watch my back for the next week or so.”
Ross waited for an explanation.
“I got the editor of The Gold Hill Clarion all riled up. Mind you…I’ve had personal confrontations in the past…even been called out twice before…challenged to duels…when I was a young man in Mississippi. And I managed to survive.” He paused. “But this man, Frank Fossett, is a no-good, lying, hoodwinking son-of-a-bitch, and I said so in print. He’s bought worthless mines, salted ’em, and sold ’em to suckers.” He never raised his soft voice as he denounced this enemy. “And I have it on good authority, he’s screwing the wife of one of his employees. Now that I’ve exposed him, he’s after my hide. And, knowing him, he won’t have the guts to come at me mano a mano. Besides being a liar and a cheat, he has all the markings of a cowardly back-shooter.”
Ross considered this proposal. He’d just hit town. Did he really want to become embroiled in someone else’s trouble? His first impression of Scrivener was positive—a man of integrity and courage. And the man had disposed of the knife-wielding drunk with no hesitation.
“I’m no gun hand, but I’ll do what I can,” Ross said.
Scrivener seemed to relax. “Couldn’t ask for any more than that.”
Chapter Three
Either Ross had quickly become used to the noise of Virginia City, or he was exhausted when he went to sleep. He didn’t wake in his hotel bed until 4:00 p.m. From beneath his slightly open second-story window came the low rumble of street noise—voices, laughter, hoof beats slopping through mud, squeaking of ungreased wagon wheels, the wheezy chords from a music box in a nearby saloon, a steam whistle in the distance. Underlying all other sounds was the monotonous, never-ceasing clanking and thumping of the stamp mills.
After he’d left Martin Scrivener this morning, he’d gone down the street to a tonsorial parlor for a haircut and shave. Following that came a soak in a hot soapy tub of water at a Chinese bathhouse while his clothes were washed. By the time he reached the six-story, brick International Hotel, checked in, and gotten to sleep, it was 9:30 a.m.
He swung his feet to the floor, stood up, and stretched mightily, his muscles stiff and sore from rattling around in the stage all night. Splashing water from the pitcher into the bedside bowl, he doused his face, raking wet hands through his hair. Wiping his face on a towel, he glanced outside through the wavy glass. The sun, dulled by a haze of high cloud, rested atop nearby Mount Davidson. He had the strangest feeling he’d wasted the day in bed. Normally a daytime person, he was now rested and ready for work, but had nothing to do, and a long night stretched before him. It would be tomorrow before Martin Scrivener, as he called himself, would introduce him to the mine superintendents so he could begin making surveys of their operations.
As he buttoned his shirt, he smiled at his reflection in the mirror. Much of his data gathering could be done above ground from ore samples, records and statistics, and interviews with mine owners. But any written records could be exaggerated, if not purposely falsified. The contents of ledgers had to be verified by first-hand evidence when he descended hundreds of feet into torch-lit tunnels, talked to miners, and examined the diggings himself. The miners made good wages, but worked under trying conditions—dependent on topside blowers to force breathable air into the shafts and drifts, where poison gas, cave-ins, explosions, scalding, and flooding were ever-present dangers. The steamy heat was so debilitating in some areas, the shirtless miners worked only a half hour at a stretch before resting in an underground room supplied with ice and water.
He checked out of the International Hotel; the rates were too rich for his government salary. One day of luxury was all he allowed himself. Then it was back to reality. A block away on C Street he ensconced himself comfortably in the Algonquin, a two-story hostelry that was reasonably clean and apparently free of vermin. After he dumped his duffel and returned to the street to find an eatery for an early supper, he was struck again at the appearance of the town. It had taken on a look of permanence with many brick buildings replacing the wooden shanties that had been here four years earlier. Even the wooden stores and saloons seemed more substantial, interspersed with the taller brick and stone structures. He passed Scholl & Roberts Gunsmiths, Young America Saloon, Light and Allman’s Livery Stable. It seemed nearly every other building was a saloon, and they never lacked for customers, any time of day or night. Wells, Fargo must be doing a healthy freighting business just to keep this town supplied with beer and liquor. He heard two gunshots, muffled by the walls of a building. No one on the street paused or even looked in that direction. Just part of the normal cacophony.
The two main streets of Virginia City ran fairly straight, paralleling the steep hills on the west. Evidently the town wasn’t planned; it just happened, with everyone building wherever he could secure a lot. The result was a hodge-podge of buildings. Viewed from a high window or a hil
l, the shingle roofs looked like a dropped deck of cards. Many of the streets branched off at acute angles in search of open space. They apparently were not laid out, but rather followed the dips, spurs, and angles of the Comstock veins. There was nothing level about the town. The streets tilted up and down. Buildings on one side of the street were set against hillsides, their second or third stories at ground level in the rear.
Still, in late afternoon, the streets were blocked by immense freight wagons with ponderous wheels, heaped with mountainous loads of ore for the mills. Axles squealed and groaned with piles of merchandise in boxes, bales, bags, and crates. Eight to sixteen horses, mules, or oxen were required to haul each wagon. Even with the teamsters cracking their long whips and swearing mightily, the draft animals, sweating and steaming in the chill air, could barely drag their cargos up the slopes and through the deep ruts.
Ross found a café and had a sandwich and a beer for supper, then set off to find Martin Scrivener at the offices of The Territorial Enterprise. He had no problem following the editor’s directions, and spotted the sign on the building from a half block away. The newspaper was located on the ground floor of a two-story brick building, tall windows looking out on the beehive city.
Ross walked in and saw two men with composing sticks setting type. Judging from the speed with which their fingers worked, they were very experienced, and didn’t look up when he entered. The place had the peculiar smell of printer’s ink, along with the faint aroma of cigar smoke.
Just then, Scrivener came out of his office in the rear of the room, a sheaf of copy in his hand. “Ah, Gil, glad to see you. Have a good day’s sleep?” The editor looked as if he hadn’t slept much. He slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses and dropped them into his vest pocket.