West of Washoe

by Tim Champlin

  Ross looked around, and realized it was dawn, not dusk. The sky was reddening in the east, and Virginia City was less than a mile away, the glare of the all-night saloons still lighting the streets. The ugly boom town looked like a shining city in the valley. He stood there, unable to shake himself into reality. Every small, mundane thing he’d always taken for granted now seemed wondrous—the crushed rocks, the sagebrush, the partially collapsed wooden tramway for the long-gone ore cars, the steady thumping of the stamp mills in the distance. He felt his eyes watering, whether from sudden emotion, or the irritating dust, he didn’t know—nor did he care.

  The men helped Angeline to her feet—and she nearly toppled over.

  “My shoe…”

  They caught and eased her back to the ground. The thick, elevated heel on her left shoe had been torn off.

  “Here, I’ll fix that…” Scrivener picked up a rock and broke off the other heel. “ ‘Tain’t much for fashion, but at least you’re not lopsided now and you can walk.”

  She smiled her satisfaction as they helped her up.

  It took several minutes for them to collect themselves. They first checked for injuries, and found all were minor ones—bumps, bruises, scratches and cuts, strained muscles, and even the marks of a rat bite on Angeline’s left calf.

  “I have only one thing to say about that,” Ross said in his most serious tone as he examined the shapely leg in the strengthening light.

  “What’s that?”

  “That rat had mighty good taste.”

  She gave him a playful shove and smiled.

  It was an expression that was good to see. “Not that I mind looking,” Ross continued, “but you might want to consider tying up the top of your dress before we go back to town.”

  She proceeded, without embarrassment, to do just that. Scrivener helped her tear another strip off the bottom of her shortened dress to fashion a makeshift suspender to loop around her neck.

  “I look awful!” she said, surveying the wreckage of her outfit.

  “On the contrary,” Ross said, shaking his head. “That painting over the bar is only a pale imitation of the real woman.”

  She smiled again, this time reddening slightly under her coating of dust.

  Good, Ross thought, I’m bringing her back from the horror of this ordeal.

  Both men had earlier shed all their clothes from the waist up in the steamy heat. The early dawn breeze was beginning to chill Ross’s sweat-dampened skin as he cooled down. He couldn’t seem to get his thought processes working. His whole being wanted only to revel in being alive.

  “Where do you reckon Fossett, Tuttle, Holladay, and that gunman have gotten to?” Scrivener asked.

  Ross had nearly forgotten about them. “A long way from here, I hope.” He tried to calculate the time.

  The sun had just eased over the horizon, its piercing rays lighting the tops of the nearby mountains and the mine buildings.

  “Feel like a walk to town?” Ross asked.

  Angeline nodded. “I’d be down there buried under tons and tons of rock if it hadn’t been for you two.” She shivered. Then she smiled and took hold of their arms, one of the men on either side. They started down the rock-strewn slope toward Virginia City.

  “Don’t we look a sight, though?” Angeline said as they approached the town, drawing stares from all the pedestrians. “Two half-naked men and a woman who looks like she’s been run over by a freight wagon.”

  “We should stick together in case those four are still around,” Ross said. “We’ll stop by your hotel and let you get some clothes. Then Martin and I will pick up something to wear at our boarding house. After that, we’ll all go to the Chinese bathhouse.”

  “Good idea,” Scrivener said. “But let me first borrow a gun from one of the boys at the newspaper office.”

  Angeline and Ross stayed outside on the boardwalk and listened to the editor fend off questions while he extracted a Colt from one of the compositors. “Don’t worry, you’ll get the full story later,” he said over his shoulder as he came out, shoving the gun under his belt. “As much as I hate to do it, we should report this to Police Chief Amos McClanahan,” Scrivener said to them. “In fact, let’s do it before we clean up. Incompetent that he is, maybe he’ll believe our story if he sees what shape we’re in.”

  The trio strode into the police station, banging the door behind them.

  “Where’s Chief McClanahan?” Scrivener demanded of the uniformed sergeant behind the desk.

  The lean, mustached sergeant continued writing without looking up. “Down at Barnum’s having breakfast. He’s been up all night on a big case.”

  “Let’s go,” Ross said, reaching for the door.

  “Hey!” the sergeant cried, finally looking up. “You’re the three they been looking for.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, John Rucker and a bunch of unemployed miners from the Blue Hole are down in the Dead Broke Mine looking for you right now. Figured they wouldn’t find nothing but…Well, you’d best get on down and report to the chief. He’ll fill you in. I’d take you myself, but I can’t leave my desk right now.” The sergeant stood up and came around the desk as if he wanted to be in on the action, but couldn’t take a chance on vacating his assigned station.

  “By the bones o’ me ancestors!” Chief Amos McClanahan heaved his bulk from his chair, bloodshot eyes bulging. Coffee slopped out of his mug as he jarred the table. “Look who’s draggin’ in here after we spent the night lookin’ for your remains!”

  As they approached the chief’s restaurant table, Ross couldn’t tell if the lawman’s reaction was anger, or just complete surprise.

  “Somebody run up to the Dead Broke Mine and call off the search!” he yelled to nobody in particular.

  Two men in the room jumped up and hurried out.

  Ross was beginning to feel the effects of his ordeal. He held a chair for Angeline, and then dropped into one next to her. Scrivener remained standing.

  It wasn’t until that moment that Ross received a sudden jolt. Frank Fossett was sitting at the chief’s table. Ross was still foggy. This was some delusional reaction conjuring up a vision of his tormentor. Ross heard a sharp intake of breath beside him as Scrivener yanked his borrowed pistol and cocked it.

  Belying his size, McClanahan sprang forward and hit the editor’s arm just as the gun roared. A bottle of whiskey exploded on the backbar, and everyone dived for cover. “You damned fool!” the policeman howled, wrenching the gun from Scrivener’s hand.

  The early breakfast customers in Barnum’s were buzzing, looking and pointing. Some edged closer to hear what was being said.

  “OK, all of you go about your business. The excitement’s over,” the chief said, waving them back. “If you got eyes, you can see they’re back from the dead. Go on, get back to your food. You’ll have the full story in the paper later.”

  Fossett lifted his hands from his lap and placed them on the table. Their trembling rattled the manacles securing them. The sandy-haired editor of The Gold Hill Clarion wore a resigned, placid look.

  “He’s my prisoner,” McClanahan said.

  “He’s one o’ them, Amos!” Scrivener nearly choked getting the words out.

  “Hell, don’t you think I know it? He came in before daylight and told me the whole story. I arrested him on the spot. But if it hadn’t been for him coming forward, nobody would’ve known where you were or what happened. He also turned in a Navy Colt and a little Thirty-Two cartridge pistol he claims he took off you.” He motioned for all of them to pull up closer to his table. Then he sat down heavily himself and signaled the waiter for more coffee. “By God, you look like you been clawed by a mountain lion,” he said, eyeing the three a little closer.

  Angeline was shivering in the strapless dress, leaning forward and hugging herself. The chief stripped off his big, blue uniform coat and handed it to Scrivener. “Put this around her.”

  The editor complied and she gave McClanahan a
grateful smile.

  “OK, let’s hear your side of it,” the chief said, rubbing his puffy red eyes.

  “I told you what happened, Chief,” Fossett said in an exasperated tone.

  “You keep quiet,” McClanahan said, waving a beefy hand at his prisoner. “I want to see if their story fits with yours.”

  “Ross and I were leaving the Enterprise office about half past one in the morning,” Scrivener began. “We ran into Angeline on the street and offered to walk her home. A Washoe zephyr was blowing like hell, but we felt, or heard, an explosion nearby as we passed the Wells, Fargo office…” He went on to detail their discovery of the robbery in progress, followed by the gun battle. Ross added a detail now and then from his own perspective.

  “Three men were wounded,” Fossett said.

  “You already told me that,” the chief said. “I told you to be quiet and let them talk.”

  Ross took up the tale and Angeline put in a comment or two as he went along. McClanahan listened intently to the harrowing story that concluded with the race for their lives. “Hadn’t been for Martin knowing how most of those mines have an inclined tunnel dug down under the body of ore, we wouldn’t have made it,” Ross finished.

  The chief puffed his cheeks and let out a low whistle of amazement. “Yep, that squares with what Fossett said, so I reckon he told me the truth. Now it’s just a matter of finding Tuttle, Slater, and Holladay.”

  Scrivener eyed Fossett. “As one editor to another, why’d you turn on them? Didn’t they pay you enough? No honor among thieves and murderers?” The vitriol dripped from his voice.

  Fossett retained his calm demeanor. “Martin, you and I have had our differences. I admit you got me so riled up, I torched your office. But I’m not a sneak thief or killer. When I hooked up with those two, I did it ‘cause I needed the money, and that’s all. Things began to get out of hand, what with robbery and murder and plotting to force Wells, Fargo to sell out their stage line. It was way more than I ever bargained for. I had a personal grudge against you and Clemens for that stuff you wrote about me, but I’m a decent man, and never intended to hurt anyone.” He turned to Ross. “You shot me, and I reckon I had it coming. But I was only trying to put the newspaper out of business. There’s a big difference between destroying a man’s business and taking his life. I have a wife and child at home. They’re not proud of what I did. But I reckon I’m trying to make amends. When they put you three down that mine shaft, it was the last straw for me. I slipped away and came straight to the police.”

  Ross said nothing, but reflected that he never ceased to be amazed by human nature.

  The chief jerked his head toward Fossett. “He’ll be charged and go to trial. But, considering the circumstances, I’d guess he’ll be let off easier. I’ll testify. Why he came in of his own accord, I don’t know. Maybe revenge, jealousy, or guilty conscience. But the fact remains he did confess and pointed the finger at his former partners.”

  “You said someone is down in the mine, looking for us?” Ross said.

  “I rousted out the president of the miners’ union and he rounded up John Rucker and several men who’d quit the Blue Hole. They volunteered to try to find you. They’re searching now.” He scrubbed a hand across his unshaven jowls. “I been up there at the hoisting works the last few hours myself, waiting for word. The news spread around town, and everybody’s been pulling for you to be rescued. First thing Rucker found was that collapsed tunnel at the bottom of the shaft where you went in. Figured you’d been buried by the blast. Some of the miners were digging for your bodies there, while others took horns and whistles and lanterns and started searching the other tunnels and other levels. But there’re miles of passageways below that mountain.” He shook his head. “If you’d stayed put at the bottom of the main shaft, they’d have snaked you outta there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “We didn’t know anybody’d come looking, because nobody knew we were down there,” Scrivener said. “We had to try to save ourselves.”

  “And, by Jesus, you did it…with a little help from the Almighty.”

  “He could’ve helped without scaring my hair grayer than it already is,” Scrivener said.

  “What about Crawford, the Wells, Fargo agent?” Ross asked.

  “Wounded, tied, and gagged. He’ll be all right. Fossett, here, takes credit for the man not being killed. Anyway, that’s what he claims.”

  “I saw no reason to kill the man,” Fossett said. “He didn’t see our faces before we jumped him, so he couldn’t identify anyone later.”

  “I don’t blame you for trying to save your neck from the gallows,” the chief said to Fossett. “And it’ll go in your favor that you told us where to find the bullion and coin that was looted.”

  “Where was it?” Ross asked.

  “In Ben Holladay’s stage stable between here and Carson City.”

  “Nobody was guarding it there?” Scrivener asked.

  “Nope. Fossett said the plan was to leave it hid for a day or two under a haystack until things cooled down, then move it out under cover of night a little at a time.”

  “So Tuttle and Slater and Holladay are gone?”

  The chief nodded. “We have a man at Tuttle’s mansion in Carson City, but he hasn’t shown up there yet. And you can bet Holladay will have an alibi that he was in Colorado or somewhere else when all this happened. Except for Fossett’s testimony…and your eyewitness accounts, of course…some lawyer will have a tough time proving Ben Holladay had any connection at all with these robberies and killings. But, if he’s apprehended, your sworn testimony might sway a jury.”

  “Why did you rob the Wells, Fargo office instead of sticking to the stagecoach hold-ups?” Ross asked Fossett.

  “Holladay figured it was taking too long and getting too many of his men shot so he decided to go for the big haul…try to bring Wells, Fargo to their knees in a hurry.”

  “I wouldn’t be for doin’ so much talking,” Chief McClanahan advised. “Save it for your trial.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll say the same thing on the stand. When I decided to come to you, I intended to make a clean breast of the whole thing. I’ll tell the simple truth as I know it. Won’t try to hide anything. I had a good record up to now. I’ll take whatever’s coming to me.”

  Ross wondered if this was the same defensive, arrogant man he’d confronted in front of the Clarion newspaper office only recently. People could, and did, change. Fossett might have been putting up a front that day. Or he could be putting up one now. No, the man’s actions spoke louder than any words. And what he’d done, for whatever reason, would probably save him from the hangman.

  A few minutes later, McClanahan stretched and stood up. He handed Scrivener back his gun. “Keep that thing quiet, or you’ll be my next guest.” He took Fossett by the arm. “I’ll be returning m’ prisoner to the lockup. He’ll be under guard for his own protection.”

  “From what?”

  “Oh, he’s a marked man now, after turning on his partners. I figure Billy Joe Slater will come looking to shut his mouth, permanently.”

  Fossett looked sick.

  Ross pictured the flat, black eyes of the emotionless gunman. He won’t be back unless someone pays him, Ross thought. Slater’s not the type to do anything for revenge. On the other hand, eliminating the major inside witness would also protect him from hanging, should he ever be caught. With a jolt, Ross realized that, to a lesser extent, he and Scrivener and Angeline were also witnesses, and their lives in jeopardy.

  Just then there was a commotion at the door and several miners walked in, led by the broad-shouldered John Rucker wearing a plaid shirt. The stocky miner came straight to Ross and gave him a brief hug. “Praise be,” he said quietly. “We were beginning to think you were gone, especially after we heard that cave-in.” He solemnly shook hands with Scrivener and Angeline.

  Ross looked at the grimy, dirt-streaked miners standing silently a few feet away. “Thank you al
l for coming to rescue us.”

  They nodded and muttered their acknowledgement.

  “Whatever they want to eat or drink is on me!” Ross yelled at the waiter and bartender who were watching the scene. “Time for us to clean up and find some clothes,” Ross added.

  Angeline handed back the chief’s coat, and took Ross’s hand. The two of them and Scrivener went out into the sunshine of a new day.

  Chapter Twenty

  Three days later Martin Scrivener stood in front of the Wells, Fargo office, saying good bye to Gil Ross and Angeline Champeaux as they prepared to board a west-bound stage.

  “Next to Virginia City, San Francisco is about as lively a place as you could find,” Scrivener said. “But things are going to be almighty dull around here with both of you gone.”

  “I don’t think it was our presence that created all the excitement,” Ross said. “I’ll have to give Clemens credit for that with those editorials he conjured up while you were out of town. They turned out to be closer to the mark than he ever imagined.”

  “Yeah. Events took a definite downturn from there,” the editor agreed, stroking his goatee. “Too bad you can’t stay a while longer…both of you.”

  “I’m leaving behind the painting of me over the bar,” Angeline said.

  “Looking at your likeness will make me miss you even more. But I’ll also remember you as that bedraggled woman with the torn dress down in the mine.”

  “I don’t want to ever think about it again,” she said with a shudder. “It’s already started haunting my dreams.”

  “Ross, you’ve got a job as a reporter on the Enterprise any time you want one.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve still got a job. In fact, my report’s due next week. Besides, I’ve enough notes and fresh memories to fill a book of my own as soon as I get to San Francisco and start writing it. It’ll put my other travel books to shame for excitement and interest.”

  “You could mail in your report, take some vacation time, and write your book at our boarding house. The landlady would love to have you. You brought a lot of business her way, since you became a celebrated visitor.”