West of Washoe

by Tim Champlin

  “Back room of a house down the block.”

  Ross helped him up, pocketing the bottle of elixir, and handing the miner his sign.

  Sturm leaned on him as they left the saloon and walked the block to the frame building. He helped him inside the unlocked door. The sick man sagged down on his bunk, muttering his thanks for the help and the food. He seemed to fall into a doze almost immediately.

  Ross gazed down on him for a moment to be sure he was breathing normally, spread a blanket over the fully dressed man, then turned to leave.

  He was startled by a movement on the other side of the room. A stocky man dressed in long Johns rolled out of a bunk next to the far wall.

  “Oh, sorry,” Ross said. “Didn’t know anyone else was here.”

  “John Rucker, his roommate. Thanks for bringing him home.” He reached for shirt and pants hanging on the bedpost.

  “Gil Ross. I saw him on the street and he looked to be in pretty rough shape.”

  “Rough is the word, all right,” Rucker said, shrugging muscular shoulders into his galluses. “I agreed to stay with Jake and look after him for whatever time he has left…which ain’t long, I’m guessing.”

  “What’s wrong with him? I bought him some food and he was telling me a tale…”

  “He let you buy him lunch? I’m surprised. He has money…a small union pension…and a lot of pride.” He sat down on the bunk to pull on his heavy socks and brogans. “Jacob has what the doctor calls silicosis. Lungs are ruined from breathing rock dust. He ain’t the first to get it, and sure as hell won’t be the last.”

  “He was blaming Avery Tuttle for it.”

  Rucker looked up sharply, finished tying his shoes, then rose and came across the room.

  “What did he tell you?”

  Ross repeated Sturm’s story.

  “Hmmm…” Rucker smoothed his sweeping mustache as he stared out the window at the dreary, manmade hills of spoil a quarter mile behind the house.

  “Ross…Ross…? Are you that mine inspector I read about yesterday in the Enterprise?”

  “That’s right.”

  Rucker turned back toward him and seemed undecided about what to say next.

  “Basically, what Sturm told you is true. I work at the Blue Hole, too. Fact is, my shift starts at six this evening. I would have kept Jake here, but I was sound asleep when he slipped out. He does that when he gets a chance. I don’t want him to get hurt. He’s too weak to pick a fight, except by what he says, along with that sign he carries. He’s dying and he’s bitter. Accuses Tuttle of damned near everything that’s wrong with the world.”

  “Can’t say as I blame him, if this Tuttle is really that bad.”

  Rucker hesitated again. “Did you help Jake because you were trying to get information from him about the mine?”

  “Partially. But I also saw a down-and-outer who needed help, and I gave him a hand before somebody came along and kicked him because of that sign he was holding.”

  “Who you inspecting these mines for?”

  “The government. I’m to report on the state of mining in general and give an estimate of mineral prospects on the whole Comstock.”

  Rucker considered this for a moment. “If I let you in on something, do I have your word that you’ll keep quiet about where you got the information?”

  “You have my hand on it.” He gripped the miner’s rough palm.

  “This Tuttle is scum, all right, but for reasons besides what Jake told you.”

  Ross leaned against the upright post of the bunk bed and listened.

  “We’ve talked about Tuttle at our union meetings, and been gathering evidence to set the law on him. Some of our miners suspect he’s actually salting that worthless dirt and rock with high-grade silver ore, once the stuff is hauled topside. We haven’t actually caught anybody in the act of doing it yet. But Jake came close. Just before he had to quit, he heard a shotgun blast in one of the tunnels, went to investigate, and found the tunnel wall peppered with flecks of gold somebody had shot into it. The gold hadn’t been there a half hour before. The stock of the Blue Hole has been rising in San Francisco. When it gets up to where Tuttle wants it, he’ll likely sell out.”

  “If you give me the evidence, I’ll expose him and save the union from doing it.” If there was anything Ross hated—even more than an upfront, armed robber—it was a sneak thief and a cheat. And this man was a brutal owner besides. He’d be glad to take the risk of exposing him.

  “We’ll take care of Avery Tuttle,” Rucker said. “I thought all this would come to light before now anyway, since The Territorial Enterprise has run some stories accusing the editor of The Gold Hill Clarion, Frank Fossett, of salting mines. Fossett is a one-third owner of the Blue Hole.”

  Ross tried not to show his surprise. Using only rumors, Clemens had accidentally accused the right man in print.

  “And that’s not the end of Tuttle’s dirty tricks,” Rucker went on, pacing the floor in agitation. “We ain’t got proof yet, but we’re pretty sure Frank Fossett, Avery Tuttle, and Ben Holladay, owner of the Overland Stage Line, are all in on a plot to force Wells, Fargo to sell out their Pioneer Line that runs between here and San Francisco. Holladay has a reputation as a ruthless businessman. It won’t be the first competitor he’s forced to knuckle under. Once he gets the Pioneer Line, he’ll have a complete monopoly of staging from Kansas to Montana, Denver, Salt Lake, and clear to the West Coast.”

  “Why would he want that fairly short Wells, Fargo line?”

  Rucker shrugged. “Men like Holladay got all the damned money they could ever spend. But rich men never get out of the habit of wanting more. Since the Comstock’s been booming, that Pioneer Line makes a bundle of cash for Wells, Fargo.”

  Ross’s head was whirling. When he’d helped Jacob Sturm into the saloon for a meal, hoping to satisfy his curiosity about the man’s sign, he never thought it would lead to inside information about a high-level plot involving a newspaper editor, a mine owner, and the proprietor of the largest staging company in the country. He tried to let on he was used to hearing things like this every day. “How were they planning to force Wells, Fargo to sell?”

  “Rumor has it they’ll just rob the express coaches till the company goes bust. Wells, Fargo guarantees the full amount of any valuables they transport.”

  “I see. If all this is known by the miners’ union, why don’t you turn them over to the law?”

  “Lack of solid proof, mostly. Been a lot of discussion at the union hall about what we can do. We don’t give a damn about Holladay, but the union’ll do everything it can to come down on crooked, brutal mine owners.”

  This was beyond anything Ross needed to be involved in. He was here only to inspect and report. But Tuttle’s false, optimistic report on the Blue Hole to inflate the stock and sale price of the mine would make Ross’s own report look stupid and erroneous.

  “These stage runs can’t be protected well enough to save most of the shipments?” Ross asked, thinking of his own experience a few nights before when he’d helped the driver and guard ward off an attack.

  “Reckon not, from what I hear. Too many places in the mountains where a stage or wagon can be ambushed. Wells, Fargo’d have to hire a private army to protect them. Hardly worth the cost.”

  Ross’s mind was already beginning to work on solving this dilemma. It was really none of his business, but…He thought of Sam Clemens and his potential duel with editor Fossett, and the violence against Martin Scrivener. If he could only somehow get Fossett arrested. In a complex scheme like Rucker had just described, and with a number of hired outlaws involved, there had to be a few weak links. Ross determined, for the sake of Scrivener and Clemens, to find and exploit one of those links. At worst, he hoped to throw some gravel into the gears of this well-greased plot.

  “I might just be able to help out the miners’ union,” Ross said, turning toward the door. “Don’t worry. No one will ever know how I knew all this. Even without
proof, sometimes a man can fight fire with fire.”

  “I’m obliged to you for helping Jake,” Rucker said, following him to the door.

  “Maybe he won’t die in vain,” Ross said, gripping the miner’s hand again.

  Chapter Seven

  Ross laid down his steel-tipped pen and leaned his elbows on the tiny table in his room at the boarding house. He couldn’t concentrate on drafting this report from his notes while everything he’d heard from miners, Sturm and Rucker, was still churning through his mind. Ross was determined to get a look inside the Blue Hole Mine. The Blue Hole was probably not one of the mines he would have inspected on this trip had it not been for his encounter with the dying miner. He wondered if the other mine owners were aware of the activities of Avery Tuttle. If rumors had spread among the miners, he was certain the other owners knew.

  Mine owners, like most men of great riches who lived in proximity to the common source of their wealth, formed an elite club and traveled mostly within their own social circle. A few owners and major stockholders lived in San Francisco and other cities. But the majority had vaulted from poverty to unimagined riches. They didn’t take their wealth for granted, and lived nearby to oversee day-to-day operations. Tearing precious metals from the earth was a chancy business at best, dependent as much on luck as skill. These men would deal with Tuttle in their own way. The owners might ignore him until he sold his nearly worthless mine. Then he’d no longer be a member of their inner circle. Yet one cheat in the bunch could tarnish the reputation of all by causing a wave of suspicion among outside investors that might be financially damaging. The other owners would have to deal with Tuttle more directly.

  Ross sighed and gave up trying to put himself into the minds of these wealthy giants of the Comstock. Somehow he’d have at least to see this man so he’d later know him on sight. But first he had to figure out how to get into the mine. If Sturm had told the truth about the mine being played out, no foreman or owner would invite a mine inspector down the shaft to have a look around.

  He stood up and stretched, then put away his pen and ink bottle. Shuffling a sheaf of papers together, he stashed them in a leather grip under the bed. He took his vest from the back of the chair and slid his arms into it, thinking Avery Tuttle had made a basic mistake that could well prove his undoing. He’d mistreated his employees. Dictators throughout history had abused the peasants at their own peril.

  A walk to the newspaper office might clear his thinking. He’d nearly forgotten his half-jesting promise to watch Scrivener’s back in exchange for the editor’s introduction to some of the mines. That was before the torching of the Enterprise office. Everything between Scrivener and Fossett was now out in the open. Short of leaving town, Martin Scrivener had no choice but to take his chances. If a rival editor, or anyone else, wanted to kill him, they’d have opportunities.

  Buttoning his vest, Ross realized he still didn’t have a coat. The spring mountain chill would be in the air again tonight. He’d been on his way to buy one when the sight of Jacob Sturm had sidetracked him. No matter. Plenty of stores were open at all hours. He closed and locked the door to his room, making sure he’d strapped on his Navy Colt, fully loaded and capped. He thought he’d seen some wild camps and boom towns during the California gold rush, but this place beat any he’d ever experienced. From what he could estimate, men outnumbered women here at least seven to one, and the residents ignored all laws of God and man. Not only did they ignore the laws, they seemed to take delight in ferreting out any they’d overlooked and breaking them twice over—fighting, robbing, cheating, killing, boozing, whoring, gambling. Moral principle was no curb to bad behavior; physical stamina was.

  The sun was setting over the nearby mountains as he walked along the street. Yellow lamplight spilled out of open doorways and windows. C Street was ablaze for the hours of darkness.

  Ross wondered if he should confide in Scrivener and Clemens. They had enough on their minds already. Scrivener could be trusted, but Clemens, on the other hand—well, he wasn’t so sure. The reporter was young and impetuous. Yet he’d been a commercial steamboat pilot, which denoted a man of intelligence and responsibility. Most of all, the two newsmen knew Virginia City and the Comstock much better than he did.

  Ross stopped. He planned to share what he knew, keeping his source to himself, as he’d promised. Perhaps the three of them should devise a plan of attack to ruin the schemes of Tuttle, Fossett, and Holladay. When the scandal blew wide open and details were picked up by all the big newspapers in the East, Midwest, and San Francisco, The Territorial Enterprise would be the most famous paper in the country.

  A portion of the brick front of the Enterprise building was still blackened with smoke. The tall, narrow window was boarded up. Inside, the pressroom, now cleaned and scrubbed, looked the same as before, or better.

  Scrivener’s office door was propped open. Inside, Ross found the editor frowning over a handful of copy.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Hell no! You’re a savior. Let’s go get a drink to settle my nerves.” He came out of his chair and around the desk.

  “What’s wrong?” Ross asked as they went out the door.

  “Been a bad day so far. The usual…copy late, and scribbled so I can hardly read it. Damned near everything I’ve gotten today needed to be rewritten. Pressmen said something’s broken on the platen. This is one of those days when I wonder why I ever wanted to become an editor.”

  Ross glanced at the rutted street of half-dried mud and plowed manure. “You know, for a city that makes noises about having the best of everything, you’d think they’d keep their streets in better shape.”

  Scrivener looked at the thoroughfare as if for the first time. “We keep it paved with a conglomerate of splintered planks, old boots, clippings of tinware, and playing cards. Especially playing cards. What the drunks don’t drop and the dealers don’t throw away, the Washoe zephyrs blow out of our two hundred saloons. When the hay gives out in winter, a lot of mules fatten up on playing cards. Works well, all around. Everything in Nature comes full circle and is renewed.”

  Ross chuckled.

  Four doors down, they turned into a saloon and stepped up to the bar. The editor ordered a Steamboat gin. “A holdover from my days as a compositor,” he said, sipping the clear liquid.

  “A Pilsner,” Ross said.

  Scrivener put down his glass. “Our old press is getting creaky. Sure would like to try out one of those new steam-powered presses. Joe Goodman is two-thirds owner of the paper. Don’t know if he’d want to spring for that kind of money,” Scrivener continued, apparently thinking out loud. Ross nodded, as if he could do something about the problems. “Press would have to be freighted over the mountains in pieces by ox teams and big wagons. You know, that old Washington hand press we’re using is the same basic design that’s been around since printing was invented. About time for something new, I’d say.”

  “You own one-third of the paper?”

  “Right. So I have a good idea of the finances, although we do have a bookkeeper.” He smiled. “We’re raking in piles of money with our advertising and the orders for all kinds of handbills and other printing jobs on the side. Virginia City has already seen several other papers come and go, like the Washoe Daily Evening Herald, The Occidental, Virginia Evening Bulletin, Daily Democratic Standard and several others I can’t recall at the moment. Even now, the Daily Old Piute, the Nevada Pioneer, and the Virginia Daily Union are publishing but, compared to The Territorial Enterprise, they’re no more trouble than flies to a lion. We take the lion’s share of the advertising, have the largest circulation, and edge out the others for any big news of the region. Even our editorials make the others look illiterate.” He swelled his chest with pride. “In spite of a few problems, there are worse things than being editor of such a publication.”

  “Like grubbing in a hole in the ground for silver,” Ross said.

  “Amen.”

 
The men stood silently with their drinks and their thoughts while the supper crowd and miners going on night shift surged in and out of the room. The clinking of glassware and the rumble of conversations filled the space in the popular saloon. For the edification of patrons, the wall above the backbar was decorated with a life-size painting of a reclining nude. As Ross studied it, he wondered if the artist had worked from a live model. Nothing had been left to the imagination—the flesh tones were soft and alluring, the dark hair framed the face, the full lips pouted, eyes held the viewer with a disconcerting gaze. The woman in the picture was languidly trailing a diaphanous veil across her nether regions, revealing more than she concealed. With a start, Ross realized the image bore a strong resemblance to the woman who’d ridden in the coach with him across the mountains. He could feel himself nearly blushing, as if she were boldly staring down at him. A local Jezebel? He caught the bartender’s eye and jabbed a finger at the painting. “Who’s the gal?”

  “Ain’t she sumpin’? Calls herself Angeline Champeaux. Rumor says she’s from New Orleans. Wish she worked here, but they got her hog-tied at the Blind Mule down the street. We can’t afford her.”

  “Oh?”

  “They pay her three times the usual wage to deal blackjack and generally keep the customers happy. But where she makes her real money is on the side with select clientele. She’s mighty particular, I hear. Not snooty, but just quality stuff and knows it. Priced outta my range, I can tell ya that.” The bartender cocked his head back and took a long look—“Mighty fine.”—then turned to go back to work.

  Ross made a mental note to visit the Blind Mule. He wanted to see if this was the woman who’d shared his coach on that wild ride across the Sierras. Other than curiosity, he had no reason for doing so.

  He tore his eyes from the painting, turned to face the room, and leaned his back against the bar. “Something I want to discuss with you,” he said.