West of Washoe

by Tim Champlin

  The thick candle on the ledge threw a fair amount of light, and it wouldn’t burn down for several hours. The rope dangled from the bottom of the nearby ladder. He ran his gaze up the rope fifteen feet to where it was tied to the remains of the ladder. Yellow candlelight didn’t illuminate anything farther up the shaft to where the plank floor covered him. Could he climb the rope? Apparently it was only a makeshift way of descending. The miners would have another way out; he was certain they didn’t climb back up that rope after a twelve-hour shift of breaking rock and shoveling ore. Gunderson and the miners who’d been here to set off the blast had gone out some other way. But Ross had no idea where those exits were, and no way of finding out. It was this rope or nothing. He’d seen men in circuses climb ropes as thick as ship’s hawsers. But those men were professional performers in excellent physical condition. And this rope was thinner and more difficult to get a grip on.

  He got up and tested the rope with his weight. It was strong enough and well secured to the ladder above. Sitting down, he pulled off his short boots and set them aside. He left the candle where it was to give him what light it could since he had no way of carrying it. Being trapped here was bad enough; being trapped in total blackness would be worse.

  Springing up, he grasped the rope as high up as he could reach, wrapped it around his hand, and heaved, pulling up with one arm and reaching above with his other hand. His legs flailed as he attempted to wrap his stocking feet around the rope flicking about beneath. His arm didn’t have the strength to lift his body high enough for another grip. He let go, burning his palms as he slid down. This was not going to work.

  Shedding his coat, he took out his pocketknife and slit the seam to remove a sleeve. Then he slashed it in two, and wrapped the cloth around each hand, tying it on to form bulky mittens.

  Again he tried the rope, and failed. The material binding his hands prevented him from getting a grip. This time he cut off his shirt tail, and used the thinner strips of cotton to protect his palms, leaving his fingers exposed. On the next attempt, he wrapped the loose end of the rope around his ankles to give some upward thrust with his legs. But fifteen feet was a long way, and, before he was halfway, he found himself limp and gasping, arms aching, sweat pouring down his face. He knew he couldn’t do it, and slowly slid down to the floor to rest. In two or three minutes his breathing steadied. He did some bending and stretching, toning his muscles for another try. As a young man, he’d been a fairly good athlete in foot races and games that required agility, co-ordination, and speed. He’d never been good at sports that required main strength. Rope climbing required both co-ordination and strength. At age forty-seven, he found it extremely difficult. But, if he were to save himself, he had to do it.

  Looking up, he gauged the distance. If he could go at it in a rush without stopping, maybe he could make the top before he gave out. He took a deep breath and relaxed for a moment. Then he sprang upward, yanking the rope hand over hand, wrapping his legs and thrusting upward. He made it up beyond the candlelight and could see the bottom rung of the broken ladder. But he was slowing, his momentum gone. Gasping, his arms cramped with effort. Oh, please, God! He closed his eyes and struggled, knowing this might be his last chance. With a supreme effort, he hauled his body weight upward, foot by agonizing foot.

  Finally, with a last, desperate lunge, he grabbed the bottom rung with one hand, then both hands, as he swung free of the rope. But victory turned to sudden despair when he realized he had no strength left to muscle himself up onto the ladder. Hanging by both hands, strength nearly gone, he wondered what to do next. The wall of the shaft was within reach of his feet. He swung his legs toward it, bracing his feet against the rough rock. The ladder was stable, secured at the top so it didn’t swing. Pausing a second or two to catch his breath, he knew his arms would give out if he didn’t take the pressure off them soon. He walked up the wall until his body was parallel to the floor. With his feet braced and steady, he reached the next rung with one hand, then the other. Two more rungs and he was finally high enough to swing his feet over to the ladder. He muttered a prayer of thanks. The first major obstacle was conquered, and he stood on the bottom rung, resting his aching muscles, recovering some of his spent strength for the next step.

  Working in dim light, he climbed to the top where the heavy planks blocked the way. They’d been dropped into place and were not fastened, so he crouched on the third rung beneath them, placed his back against one of the two-by-twenty boards, and thrust upward, straightening his legs, the rung cutting into his feet. A single plank gave. He pushed upward, toppling the plank back to one side just as the rung splintered and gave way beneath his feet. The upper half of his body and his elbows saved him from falling, and he managed to lever himself up through the opening.

  Rolling over on his back, he lay gasping for several minutes before he recovered enough to sit up and look around. It was then he realized he could see. Some light was reflecting off the walls of the drift some fifty yards away, and he heard the sound of tools striking rock.

  He got up, pulled his Colt, that was securely wedged into its holster, and padded toward the sound. Two miners were breaking up large chunks of ore with picks and didn’t notice his approach until he yelled at them: “Hold it!”

  They both jumped. One man leaned his pick against the pile.

  “Both of you are going up top with me. Move!”

  “Our shift ain’t up yet,” one of them said, wiping his hands on his overalls.

  “I said you’re taking me out of here…now!”

  “Who are you, mister? Where’d you come from?” one of them asked, sliding his hand down his pick handle.

  “Never mind that. Take me to the hoist!”

  The man swung his pick at Ross’s mid-section.

  Ross dodged and fired, barely missing the miner, the slug knocking chips from the wall.

  The two miners raised their hands, backing away, eyes wide in dust-streaked faces.

  Ross’s ears were ringing from the blast in the confined space and he couldn’t even hear the click as he cocked his weapon again.

  “Grab those candles, and let’s go.” He motioned with the blue-black barrel of his Colt, then stepped aside as the men passed him carrying their lights. They led him to the base of the shaft he had descended earlier. The big, iron-bound wooden bucket rested on the floor.

  “Signal that I’m coming up.”

  A miner gripped the bell cord and yanked it twice.

  Ross climbed in, keeping them both covered.

  A few seconds later, the hoist rope grew taut and the bucket swung up. Ross holstered his gun as the men holding the candles grew smaller beneath him. He breathed a great sigh of relief, although he wasn’t yet safely above ground.

  About halfway up, the bail of the bucket to which the rope was attached snagged on a protruding piece of broken ladder. Ross was steadying himself with one hand on the overhead rope when he jolted to a stop. The rope began to stretch and grow thinner and harder under his touch as the hoist continued pulling. The bucket tilted and started to tip over.

  Before he was dumped out, Ross instinctively leaped for the ladder and scrambled up as fast as he could climb.

  The heavy bucket, relieved of his weight, swung free and banged from side to side in the narrow shaft. Ross paused for a second and realized the bucket was now pursuing him, rising up through the blackness faster than he could climb.

  His ordeal had left him weak, and he glanced upward at the lighted opening far above. He’d never make it before the bucket caught up. And the shaft was too narrow to allow the bucket to pass without crushing him against the ladder. With sudden inspiration, he grabbed the rope a few yards above the bucket and swung off the ladder, clinging like a monkey. He was carried up and up at a steady pace until he could hear the rope running through the sheave above. To save his hands from being caught, he slid down, dropping into the bucket again shortly before it reached the surface and was let down on a wooden platform.<
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  Wonder of wonders! There was still sunlight in the world above. He sprang out and yanked his Colt. “Where’s Gunderson?” His eyes were having trouble adjusting to the sudden light. He could barely make out Jorge staring at him, one hand on the blind horse.

  “Where’s Gunderson?” Ross yelled again.

  “Quién sabe?” the Mexican replied. “No see him.”

  From the fearful, dumbfounded look on the man’s face, Ross decided the Mexican was telling the truth. The superintendent had likely come out another way, or was still somewhere below.

  Ross stumbled away down the hill, hatless, coatless, bootless, squinting in the bright daylight, gratefully sucking in the fresh air. He’d reached the road at the bottom and was striding toward town before he realized he still had his Colt gripped in one hand and that his socks and feet were picking up cactus needles.

  He swore with feeling, and sat down on the ground to pluck out the barbed spines. He shoved his gun into its scabbard, and tucked his dangling watch and chain away into a vest pocket. The lumps in his side pockets reminded him he still carried several ore samples.

  Like some wild man, his clothes were ripped and dirt-streaked, hair full of dust, sweat plastering the shirt to his back. Miners trudging along the road, and horsemen cantering by, looked at him curiously. They probably considered him one of the many drunks who littered the streets day and night, he thought as he staggered upright on sore feet. But he didn’t care how he looked or that his muscles were strained and he was bruised and aching from head to foot. He was above ground and still breathing. Nothing else mattered—at the moment. This battle had now become personal.

  Chapter Nine

  Frank Fossett eased himself into the overstuffed chair, taking care not to bump his left arm that was supported by a sling. Even though he carried a small bottle of laudanum in his coat pocket, he took a spoonful of it only when the pain rose to the point of forcing everything else from his consciousness. He thought perhaps he had some nerve damage, although the doctor hadn’t mentioned the possibility.

  He’d arrived early for this meeting at Avery Tuttle’s Carson City mansion. Ben Holladay, owner of the Overland Stage Line, was always a little late so the egotistical blowhard could make a grand entrance. Fossett was feeling out of his depth, and nervous. As junior member of this triumvirate, he took orders without question from the others. Even though Avery Tuttle had allowed him to buy into the Blue Hole Mine at a bargain price in exchange for unlimited space in The Gold Hill Clarion, he was beginning to suspect he owned a third of a worthless hole in the ground.

  Avery Tuttle, Ben Holladay, and he were meeting at Tuttle’s home in broad daylight—not a wise thing to do, in Fossett’s opinion. Rumors were already rampant that he and Tuttle and Holladay were joining forces in some kind of business deal. With any luck, no one suspected their deal involved robbery, fraud, and possible murder. Perhaps it was his conscience that caused him to see suspicious eyes everywhere he looked. But those editorials in The Territorial Enterprise had accused him of skullduggery like salting mines and of trying to burn down the Enterprise office. The wound in his left arm gave even further weight to the latter accusation. By some mischance, a bystander on the street had winged him before he could get away. It was doubtful the man had also recognized him. But Fossett couldn’t be sure. He’d avoided going to his own office at the Clarion for a couple of days, telling his associate editor he’d had too much to drink and taken a fall from his horse, injuring his left arm. The associate probably thought otherwise, but said nothing.

  Fossett knew he’d have to do something about that damned Martin Scrivener, or McNulty, or whatever his real name was. His face grew warm just thinking about the man. If he allowed the Enterprise to continue railing at him in print without denying everything, people would begin to believe Scrivener was uttering truth. He didn’t mind being accused of adultery. But salting mines? That was too close to the facts, and might lead to revelation of the bigger scheme afoot. Tuttle’s voice interrupted his reverie.

  “What’ll you have to drink, Frank?”

  “Uh…sherry, if you have it.”

  “Sherry? I thought you were a whiskey drinker.”

  “Well, it’s a little early in the day.” Actually, Fossett thought, he wanted to keep his wits about him while dealing with these two sharks.

  Tuttle disappeared into the next room and returned with a wine glass half full of amber liquid and handed it to Fossett.

  Tuttle employed a cook, housemaid, and butler, but he gave them all the day off when the three met in his new mansion. He’d complained to Holladay that they should meet somewhere else because it cost him money every time he paid his staff for a day they didn’t work.

  Holladay had dismissed his complaint as cheap carping, and pointed out they had more important and high-priced concerns to occupy their attention.

  Fossett sipped the heavy, sweet wine and eyed Tuttle pouring himself a whiskey from a cut-glass decanter on the massive sideboard. The pear-shaped, baby-faced mine owner dressed like a dandy. The fawn-colored breeches, the silk vest and starched white shirt and cravat, the polished boots—his entire manner of dressing and acting seemed to fit with the house and its furnishings. In fact, the man himself was appropriate to the clothes and the décor. Only a scant trace of shaved facial hair was visible on the rosy cheeks and chin, mid-section going to pudge, but belted firmly into place. With thinning blond hair and blue eyes, he looked more like a middle-aged cherub than the devious, ruthless man Fossett knew him to be. Fossett smiled to himself behind the wine glass. With a pair of floppy cuffs, silken knee breeches, white stockings, and buckle shoes, the man would have fit perfectly into the court of Louis XVI, eighty years ago.

  No one knew much about Tuttle’s private life. He’d shown up on the Comstock early in 1861 with no wife, but apparently enough money to invest in mining properties. Either with money he’d brought, or money acquired, he’d built this elegant mansion, furnished it, and hired servants. The liquors and wines he kept in the house seemed more for entertaining guests than for his own consumption. He made a show of drinking, but a single shot glass of bourbon would last him for hours, and Fossett knew no one who’d ever seen the man the least bit tipsy. Nor did he smoke, or gamble—except in business. What about sex? Again, no one knew. Fossett leaned forward, dropping his eyes when Tuttle looked up and caught him staring. A time or two Fossett had subtly tried to pry into the man’s past, but the mine owner had made some joking comment and diverted the conversation to another topic. Fossett didn’t trust a man who had no faults. In spite of his sunny, sociable manner, Tuttle gave the impression he was not presenting the real man—he was always on stage. The man had a dark side; Fossett was sure of it.

  Tuttle pulled a massive gold watch from his fancy vest and popped open the case with one hand. “Where the hell is Holladay? Always late. He evidently thinks I have nothing better to do than wait around all day for him to show up.” He didn’t mention wasting Fossett’s valuable time as well.

  He snapped the case shut, returned the watch to his vest pocket, and began pacing up and down, once going to the front window and pulling aside the lace curtain to peer out.

  Fossett sipped the sherry to ease the pain in his arm, purposely avoiding dosing himself with laudanum in front of this priggish man. The silence was broken by hoof beats thudding on the packed street.

  “About time,” Tuttle said.

  Fossett saw the big man step down from an ornate coach and stride briskly up the front walk. A sharp rap. The door was thrust open. Ben Holladay blew into the room like a fresh spring breeze.

  “Howdy, gents,” he said, removing his hat and flinging it accurately at the hall tree.

  “What’re you drinking, Ben?” Tuttle asked, the irritated look gone from his face. He always treated one of the richest, most influential men in the country with deference.

  “Brandy.” The big man rubbed his hands together.

  “Hello, Frank.” He
acknowledged Fossett’s presence with a curt nod. “A fine May day!” he enthused, accepting the brandy from his host. He sipped his drink with obvious satisfaction and smoothed his heavy, brown beard and mustache. “Let’s get down to business,” he said. “I have a meeting with my Virginia City agent this afternoon.”

  Tuttle sank down on the couch while Holladay continued to stand in the middle of the room, an imposing six feet two inches. A ruby ring glowed on the hand that held his glass. His famous tiger-claw watch fob showed white against the dark blue vest.

  “First of all, I hear you got yourself shot while torching The Territorial Enterprise office,” Holladay said, frowning.

  “I guess word got out about that,” Fossett said, his face growing warm.

  “A public fight with some two-bit newspaper editor is not what we want,” Holladay continued.

  “The editorials…”

  “I don’t care how it happened!” the big man cut him off sharply. “I know as much about it as I need to know. If you’re going to do us some good and share in the profits, you will have to keep your head down. We don’t want the whole world to know what we’re about. You will continue to praise the assets of the Blue Hole Mine and of the Overland Mail and Stage Company in The Gold Hill Clarion.”

  Fossett nodded his understanding, noting that Holladay’s eyes were set too closely together in his broad face, giving the impression of a very penetrating gaze. Possibly a slight defect from birth that wasn’t correctable with spectacles.