West of Washoe

by Tim Champlin

The stage line owner turned to Tuttle. “I see the stock of the Blue Hole is rising. That’s good. What’re you really taking out of there?”

  “Very poor-grade ore. My men did hit one good ledge at the sixth level, two hundred and forty feet down. But it pinched out quickly. I slipped into one of the older drifts and salted the walls with a couple shotgun blasts of gold dust.”

  Holladay nodded, sipping his drink.

  “The miners are already wondering how they missed it, the flecks are so obvious.”

  “Forget the miners. They have no proof of anything.”

  “I know. But their union is strong, and I’ve heard talk they suspect me of salting the mine.”

  “Rumors and speculation…the Comstock runs on them,” Holladay said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “One other little problem…,” Tuttle began, seemingly hesitant to go on.

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a mine inspector in town who works for the government. He was just inspecting a sample of the mines for his report. Never thought he’d want to take a look at the Blue Hole. But he did. The strange thing about it was, he came to my superintendent, posing as a representative for some San Francisco buyers. Why would he do that unless he suspected everything wasn’t on the up and up? Anyway, I got wind of his coming and took care of him.”

  “What do you mean…took care of him?” Holladay’s voice took on an ominous tone.

  “I had Gunderson, my superintendent, accept his story at face value and give him a guided tour…”

  “And…?” Holladay prompted when Tuttle hesitated.

  “I told Gunderson if this man, whose real name is Gilbert Ross, appeared to notice that no metal-bearing ore was being dug out, or picked up samples of the ore I’d salted, then Gunderson was to lose him in the mine.”

  “Lose him?” Holladay pressed.

  “Gunderson deserted him below the two-hundred-fifty foot level in one of the drifts where he couldn’t find his way out, and where the miners weren’t likely to stumble on him,” Tuttle rushed on, as if in a hurry to finish while he had the courage.

  Holladay rubbed his compressed lips and paced thoughtfully around, his boots thudding on the Persian rug. He paused and set his drink on the sideboard.

  “Another complication we don’t need. But we’ll have to deal with it. When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “Could he still be alive?”

  “Very possibly.”

  “Then send someone down there to find him. If he’s alive, bring him out and apologize. Make whatever excuse you want about the foreman accidentally leaving him behind, or whatever. If he’s already dead, bring out his body at night and drop him down somebody else’s mine shaft. When he’s found, it’ll be termed an accident and neither his relatives nor his government employer will associate his death with you.”

  “Good idea,” Tuttle said, his rosy cheeks redder than ever. He was apparently as relieved as a schoolboy being let off easy by the headmaster. “I’ll see to it as soon as we finish this meeting.”

  “Now, to other matters,” Holladay said briskly. “We must keep the pressure on Wells, Fargo. So far, in spite of losses, they’ve shown no sign of divesting themselves of their Pioneer Line. I can’t make them another offer right now without appearing far too eager and interested. Within five to seven years, the railroads will be extended through here and render most of the stage routes obsolete, except for short, feeder lines. That’s why I must make as much as I can before that happens. I’ll pick the right time to sell out all my holdings just before they begin to lose value…while my coaches are still running full and making money. But,”—he paused for emphasis—“I will have that Pioneer Stage Line across the Sierras to San Francisco to complete my monopoly. All staging is mine by right. Wells, Fargo just fell into ownership of this line. They should stick to what they do best…banking and heavy freighting. If I can’t acquire the Pioneer Line by one means, I’ll use another. Ben Holladay will be remembered by history as the absolute monarch of the mail and passenger stagecoach lines in this country.”

  Fossett wondered if all wealthy men had such monumental pride and ambition. He guessed most of them did. Here was a prime example. But he had to ride the man’s coattails if he were to gain a good deal of money for himself.

  Holladay picked up his glass and drained the rest of the brandy. Then he took two steps and sat down heavily in a padded chair, crossing his legs.

  “All right, here’s where we are, then,” he began, addressing Tuttle. “Fossett will lie low and continue to run ads for Blue Hole stock in his paper, writing pieces that will report on other mining properties in the area, but will always somehow work in a hint that the Blue Hole is really the sleeping giant.” He pointed at Fossett. “You’ll editorialize, without being obvious about it. You’ll say the Blue Hole is the up and coming mine, a prize for the wise investor, or words to that effect…”

  “If I get a good offer, should I sell out?” Tuttle interrupted.

  “Yes. Then you’ll have cash in hand and be rid of the responsibility of running it. When I get my hands on the Pioneer, you’ll be free to accept a job as my western supervisor. You can move to San Francisco to escape the hubbub that’ll erupt when they discover the mine’s worthless.”

  Tuttle smiled. “I could probably sell this mansion for a good price, too.”

  “As a silent partner, I own a third of the Blue Hole,” Fossett reminded them when the two men seemed to be leaving him out of the conversation.

  “Work that out between you,” Holladay said. “Just remember, the money you receive for stock, or an outright sale, will come first to me. I’ll use it to finance the hiring of more gunmen to go after the shipping of bullion on Wells, Fargo. There’ll be so many hold-ups they will have to sell out. Once I get my hands on that Pioneer Line, both of you will be well compensated for your work.”

  A sharp knock on the back door interrupted them.

  Tuttle jumped out of his chair like a taut spring released.

  “I thought you said we wouldn’t be disturbed,” Holladay said, glowering.

  “Hold on. I’ll get rid of whoever it is.” Tuttle hurried down the narrow hallway to the back door.

  Fossett heard mumbling voices. A few seconds later came the sound of the door closing and a bolt being shot.

  Tuttle reëntered the room, looking more flushed than before. “That was Jorge, a Mex who works the lift at the mine. Gunderson sent him to tell me that Ross, the mine inspector, came up in the bucket pretty roughed up three hours after Gunderson took him underground. Ross was loco, waving a pistol, yelling for Gunderson. Ross took off on foot toward Virginia City. Hasn’t been seen since.”

  Holladay muttered something under his breath. “I can’t depend on you to do a damn’ thing right!” he exploded. “That’ll go into the newspaper or Ross’s report. In either case, it’ll sink the price of your stock.”

  “Gunderson sent word Ross can’t prove we deliberately did anything to hurt or kill him,” Tuttle babbled.

  “Did Ross get any ore samples?” Holladay asked.

  “Jorge didn’t say.”

  “Any experienced miner could tell if rock or dirt has been salted with gold particles, or if the bluish silver ore has been deliberately mixed with clay…physical proof fraud’s involved in the Blue Hole.”

  Fossett saw the mine owner’s Adam’s apple work up and down in the soft flesh of his neck. “I’ll find out from Gunderson,” Tuttle said in a strained voice.

  Holladay got up and shook his great, shaggy head as if to rid himself of the contamination in the room. “In the meantime, we’ll stay on schedule for our next hold-up of the Washoe Express. Wells, Fargo has a coach departing Virginia City for Sacramento and San Francisco next Tuesday noon. I’ve made arrangements to ship small, easily portable gold ingots in the strong-boxes, listed as the property of a passenger. My hired guns will hit the coach before it reaches Strawberry. It’s costing more and
more to find men with guts and competence who’ll take on the shotgun guards protecting the shipments. Costs continue to rise, but costs to Wells, Fargo have risen even higher.” He moved to the hall tree and retrieved his hat. “Tuttle, in a few days, I’ll be in contact to follow up on this mine inspector business. Good day, gentlemen. When next we meet, I trust all of us will have better news to report.”

  Tuttle hurried to open the front door for him, and the big man strode outside to his waiting coach.

  Through the beveled glass front door, Tuttle watched his guest depart. Finally he stepped back into the room with an audible sigh of relief. “I know men who’d give all they own just to have Ben Holladay cross their thresholds…hoping some of his luck would rub off on them. Did you hear him say he’s going to hire me as his western division supervisor once he acquires the Pioneer Stage Line?”

  “He’s a man to be reckoned with, all right,” Fossett said, draining the last of his sherry and easing out of the armchair. It wouldn’t be long before he’d have to take a spoonful of laudanum. He wondered if his wound was becoming inflamed.

  “I mean, the man is worth several fortunes!” Tuttle gushed. “And he came up from nothing…one of seven kids of a Kentucky farmer. Made it all on his own. His Overland Mail and Express stretches from Atchison, Kansas to Montana, Denver, Salt Lake, and up into the Oregon country.”

  “I’m well aware of his fortune,” Fossett said, draping his coat over his shoulder and bandaged arm. Tuttle’s toadying irked him.

  “Besides being sole owner of the country’s largest stage line,” Tuttle went on, “he owns sixteen steamers on the coast, has a couple of slaughterhouses and grain mills, whiskey distilleries, and who knows what else. I’ll bet even he doesn’t know what he owns.”

  “On the contrary, I’d bet he knows exactly what he owns. How do you think he got where he is?” Fossett said. “By paying attention to details, that’s how. Did you notice how much interest he took in what you’d done with this Gilbert Ross?”

  Tuttle was staring into space, evidently still awestruck. “Why do you suppose a man like Holladay wants more? Why’s he so intent on acquiring the Pioneer Line?” He followed Fossett down the hallway to the back door.

  The editor paused, his hand on the brass bolt. “Men like Holladay are driven to excel. Ingrained habit from childhood…from their first break and their first taste of success. They’re slaves to their own ambition, addicted to wealth and power like a chink to opium.” He slid back the bolt and opened the door.

  “That Ben Holladay is a ruthless son-of-a-bitch!” Tuttle said in an admiring tone. “I could do a lot worse than hitch my wagon to his fortunes.”

  Fossett turned to him. “Did it ever occur to you to wonder why a man that rich would need the money we could get for worthless mine stock?”

  “Ben told me ninety-five percent of his assets are tied up in real property…horses, coaches, land, buildings, equipment. He needs untraceable liquid capital to fund this project to bring down Wells, Fargo.”

  “With all that collateral, he could obtain huge bank loans…unless he’s already overextended.”

  “What?”

  Tuttle finally began to listen.

  “In the newspaper business, I hear lots of rumors. Some of those rumors say Ben Holladay is riding for a financial fall…that his whole empire is teetering on the verge of collapse because his reach exceeded his grasp. Buying too much on credit, forcing competitors out of business with cut-rate fares and low prices for his goods.”

  Tuttle stared at him blankly.

  “He has the mail delivery contracts because he used his ready cash to buy off Congressmen. His creditors are also demanding cash, and I hear he’s mighty short on specie. I’ve learned to give only half an ear to rumors. But usually where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “Nothing to it. Ben Holladay could buy and sell the whole of Virginia City without batting an eye.”

  “Have you actually seen his financial records?” Fossett could hardly wait to be rid of the both of these men. But first, he had to take enough of their money to see him through the rest of his life. He was tired of slaving for a living, only to die someday in poverty.

  “It’s obvious enough to me the man is a multi-millionaire,” Tuttle insisted, his cheeks glowing, blue eyes blazing defiance.

  “ ‘All that glitters is not gold,’” Fossett quoted as he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Ten

  Gil Ross squatted on a sandbar at the edge of the Carson River and scooped water into a wide, shallow miner’s pan. He swirled the water around and around, stirring a handful of coarse black material. With each rotation, he deftly flipped some of the water and rock particles over the edge of the pan until only a cupful of water remained. Little by little he sluiced the dirty water and lighter grit out until a residue of fine gold particles had sunk to the bottom.

  “Pretty good color,” he muttered aloud to himself as the sun shone on the dully glinting streak. “And from a small chunk of ore, at that.” He stood up with a groan, stretching his sore back and leg muscles. “Got to get into condition,” he said.

  Setting the pan on the gravel bar, he knelt beside it to rake out the remaining residue of rock and mud with his fingers. He touched the tip of his forefinger to the wet gold. Some tiny flecks of yellow metal adhered to the ball of his finger. He held it up. “So this is what men kill and rob and cheat and scheme and give up their homes and travel thousands of miles for…amazing,” he breathed, scraping the remainder of the gold dust into a tiny, black velvet poke. He shoved it into his pants pocket. Then he removed two more fist-sized chunks of ore from the pocket of his new corduroy jacket, having replaced the coat ruined in the mine shaft. Holding them in the sunlight, he took a small magnifying glass from his other pocket and examined the ore.

  “Just like I figured,” he said aloud. Even without the glass, he could detect the gold particles had been driven into the dark quartz with some force. The pattern was the same—each of the tiny, individual pieces had penetrated to various depths, leaving a detectable path of entry. “Huh!” He slid the glass back into his coat pocket. “Blasted in there as neat as you please, probably with a shotgun.”

  He’d crushed two hunks of ore to wash out the gold they contained, and he’d retained two intact just as he’d removed them from the mine. If the gold in this rock had occurred naturally, and it’d come from a large ledge that had the same concentration throughout, it would assay at more than $2,000 to the ton. A nice lure for investors. But he was convinced the gold in this rock was no more a natural phenomenon than the gold in his teeth.

  He stooped to wash the pan, wetting the toes of his new shoes in the process. His old, worn out boots were still in the Blue Hole Mine, unless some miner had found and thrown them away or was wearing them.

  Striding back toward town, he stretched out the sore muscles in his legs and buttocks. It would take a few days for his ordeal in the mine to recede in memory so that it didn’t disturb his dreams, as it had last night. It wasn’t the first time he’d been disoriented in caves and mines, but no one had ever purposely tried to make sure he could never find the way or means to get out. This reaction to the murder attempt would pass. Meanwhile, what should he do with this evidence that the mine had been salted? Maybe he’d have a talk with John Rucker, to see if any of the miners on the other shift had any thoughts about Gunderson. No doubt the foreman had acted under orders.

  Should he give the evidence of this salted ore to Martin Scrivener, or reporter Sam Clemens? Since Rucker had revealed that Frank Fossett, editor of The Gold Hill Clarion, was a third owner of the Blue Hole, this would only add fuel to the feud between his two friends on the Enterprise and Fossett. Damned if this wasn’t getting complicated.

  Besides recording this in his report, he had no idea what to do next. Most of the people in town owned at least some mining stock in some kind of mine. The printed certificates representing these shares we
re given freely as gifts among friends. As near as Ross could tell, there was no intent to defraud. Almost any stock for mines in the area had potential value. It was only a matter of waiting to see how much value. But what he’d uncovered was fraud on a grand scale that could ruin many investors.

  It was a long walk to the river and back, and he was thirsty. He decided to stop at the Blind Mule for a beer, to give himself time to ponder these things. The real reason was to have a look at Angeline Champeaux, the flesh-and-blood version of the girl in the painting above the bar. Was she the woman who’d ridden the stage? Maybe it was just her hairstyle that made her look different.

  Although only mid-morning, he found her dealing blackjack at one of the gaming tables. Two other women in the room were serving drinks and food, but his eye immediately caught the brown-haired woman. She shone like a lamp in a dim cellar. One look told Ross this was the woman in the painting, the belle of the Comstock, the independent, high-priced courtesan, who named her own price and her own terms.

  Ross went to the bar, ordered a beer, and sipped it as he watched her from a distance. The man at her blackjack table finally gave it up as a bad job, tossed down his cards, and left. Ross sidled over.

  “Interested in a little game to pass the time?” she asked, smiling at Ross as she shuffled. Then she stacked and cut the deck on the green baize cover.

  “Sure.” He straddled the tall stool.

  She dealt him a card, face down, and one for herself as well, then flipped each of them a card, face up. He had a four of clubs showing, she a nine of diamonds.

  “Hit me.”

  She placed another card on his stack—the six of hearts. She added the deuce of spades to her own hand. “Dealer showing eleven,” she intoned.

  Ross peeked at his hidden card—a jack of clubs. He placed two silver dollars on the table. “I’ll stand.”

  She deftly flipped up her hole card—the queen of hearts. “Twenty-one.”

  Ross showed his total of twenty and she raked in his silver.

  “Again?”