by Jane Toombs
Before she could rise, Alex Campbell walked toward her. At the same time she heard Philippe behind her.
"You a friend of Daggett's?” Campbell asked.
Keeping her face down so her cap would shade it, she shook her head.
Campbell reached down, pulled off her cap and tossed it aside. He stuck a finger under her chin, forcing her head up. She scowled defiantly at him, at the same time noting with dismay his puzzled expression. Kneeling beside her, his hand ran down the front of her coat and over her breasts, hidden by the heavy cloth. She jerked away.
"I'll be damned,” Campbell said.
Without another word, he stood up and swaggered off down the street. Nobody made any effort to stop him.
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CHAPTER 10
As he and Monique walked down C Street three weeks later, Philippe raised his hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger. “There was nothing to it,” he said. “The uninformed might call it luck, and some of it might be, but it's essentially skill enhanced by my powers of observation and thought."
"You must've won last night,” Monique said.
"More than merely won. Philippe Manigault triumphed gloriously, carrying all before him. Do you want to learn my secret? I look for clues in the behavior of my opponents. I look for the blink of an eyes, the curl of a mouth, the tapping of fingers on the table. They're all clues. Only the wiliest man can completely mask his emotions."
She smiled at him. “I hoped our luck would turn here in Virginia City. I had a feeling it might when we got off the stage, even after that terrible shooting."
"Even that,” Philippe said. “What was terrible luck for Ross Daggett proved fortunate for us. There'd have been no vacancy in this boarding house if Daggett hadn't cashed in his chips."
"Don't, Philippe. It's bad enough living in a dead man's room, without making jokes about it."
"I'm sorry. It seems the indifference to death here is contagious. Why, I'm told there are twenty men buried in the Virginia City cemetery and not one of them died a natural death. Most of them succumbed to lead poisoning, as they're wont to say here."
She took a deep breath of the cool, clear air. “Let's not talk of death. Not today. Let's just enjoy the sunrise instead."
As they continued down C Street, the sun rose above the eastern mountains, throwing long shadows across the dirt road ahead of them. The dust of the day before had settled and the saloons and gambling halls were quiet. A horse neighed in a livery stable and from the valley below them came the pounding of the hammers of the stamp mills.
Entering the Sacramento Restaurant, they sat at a rear table and ordered ham and eggs. Monique, still masquerading as Martin, excited no interest or curiosity. She'd not seen Alex Campbell since their arrival. Thank God.
After breakfast, they walked slowly along the board sidewalk while the town began to stir around them. A balding man washed the windows of the Virginia house, metal clanged on metal in a blacksmith's shop, and a whomp, whomp, whomp, reverberated from the mountains.
"Must be blasting in the Ophir mine,” Philippe said.
Miners sauntered along the streets, pushing in and out of the saloons. Muted laughter came from a gambling hall, followed by the plinking of a piano as someone picked out, “The Girl I Left Behind Me” with one finger. The odors of stale whiskey and cigar smoke mingled with the tang of alkali dust rising from the street in the wake of a wagon drawn by four mules.
"I never should've brought you here,” Philippe said suddenly.
She glanced at him, wondering what had dampened his exuberance. “I like Virginia City,” she assured him. “I like the Comstock."
"Surely you miss the comforts of San Francisco. I never dreamed a city with Virginia's fair name would be so barren and uncivilized. The Washoe is God's slagheap. There might be gold and silver here, but there's surely nothing else. “Not even a tree in sight."
Monique smiled at him. “When I woke up this morning, I had this wonderful feeling that a change was on the way—that good times are coming. I felt the same way back in Alabama when I went to the Randolphs’ party to watch the dancing—the night I met you and Jeremy."
Philippe frowned, but didn't reply.
"What do you find so disagreeable?” she asked.
"The banks are beginning to take an interest in the Comstock,” he said. “They're buying out the prospectors, the men like Old Virginia, McLaughlin, O'Riley, Penrod, even Pancake Comstock himself. The banks pay them a few thousand dollars for their claims and then send experienced mining men into the territory."
It never ceased to amaze Monique how much Philippe could discover about a place in just a week or two. Then it hit her what he'd said. Banks.
"McAllister?” she asked.
Philippe nodded. “I heard yesterday he's having Jeremy come here from San Francisco."
Jeremy! She stifled her excitement, but couldn't resist asking, “Is he—have you heard if he's married?"
"I haven't heard. Anyway, it's probably just a rumor passing around, or someone's fancy. A ‘quaint’ as Dan DeQuille calls his tales in the Territorial Enterprise. Don't put your faith in Jeremy coming here."
"Oh, but he is coming. That's why I felt the way I did this morning. Not that I care where he goes or what he does."
Ever since he first became involved with that San Francisco banking crowd he's been a different man,” Philippe said. “I don't think I know him any more, nor do I care to."
"It's not him, it's that woman—Laura McAllister. But let's not talk about either of them.” She looked up at the flag flying from Mount Davidson. “Isn't it strange how the Washoe mountains look? Like pieces of purple cut out and pasted against the sky."
"I shouldn't have brought you here,” Philippe said again. “What would become of you if anything happened to me?"
"Nothing will happen to you—you're indestructible. No matter what, Philippe Manigault will manage to survive. Isn't that what you told me a long time ago?
"I may have. All at once, I'm not so sure it's true."
She looked at him critically. “Why? What's wrong, Philippe? Is there something you haven't told me? It's not really Jeremy's coming that's troubling you. There's more, isn't there?"
"Yes, there's more. There's a scam afoot here that I don't understand. I have a nose for devious operations and the smell's telling me something's amiss. It's nothing I've seen or heard, not directly, just bits and pieces of gossip I've picked up here and there during these past few weeks."
"What gossip?"
"There's nothing to tell you because I haven't been able to fit the pieces together yet. And there's always the chance it may be nothing but smoke.” He shook his head. “No, there's more than smoke. I've seen too many men celebrating, thinking they've hit it big on Gold Hill or here in Virginia City, and yet the assays turn up nothing of value. A short time later, men connected with Reid or the banking crowd make big strikes in the same areas. As though they knew something the prospectors didn't."
"Didn't you say it took the old-timers like Comstock years to realize how rich these mountains were?"
"True. They were so dead set on finding gold that they kept getting riled at all the ‘blue stuff,’ as they called it, that kept clogging their rockers. Of course that was silver. Even after that, when they discovered surface gold or silver in the ravines and canyons, they never guessed the ore might be coming from larger veins higher in the mountains. The Mexican miners knew right away because they were used to prospecting for silver, but the men of Washoe didn't."
"Well, there you are, Philippe. Those prospectors you're talking about probably weren't looking in the right places."
"I wish it was as simple as that, but it's not my concern, thank God for that. I have enough troubling me as it is."
"You're not worrying about me, are you? I can look after myself.” She deliberately made her tone light and bantering. “I don't need a man, not even you. I'm perfectly capable of tak
ing care of myself. Women spend too much of their lives looking for men to protect them. It's high time they stopped."
"Ah, youth,” Philippe said with a smile. “So exuberant, so full of confidence—and so mistaken. You're still Martin, remember. What would you do without me if you suddenly had to be Monique again, as, of course you will, sooner or later. What would you do to make your way in the world without Philippe Manigault? Tell me. I'd like to hear."
"I could be a hurdy-gurdy girl,” she said as they passed the El Dorado. “I'm sure there are men in Virginia City who'd pay a dollar to dance with me."
"Quite possibly every man in the area. But, remember, few of the hurdy-gurdy girls manage to keep their virtue intact. Most are soiled doves."
"Or,” Monique went on, nodding toward the Silver Dollar, “I could deal twenty-one and faro. You did teach me, you know. In fact, you said I had a knack for cards."
"You'll never deal cards as long as I have anything to say about it. I've gathered a small stake and I'm confident I'll increase it.” He waved an expansive hand. “My stake will grow until I have enough to invest in a mine. A man hears a great deal at the gaming tables, and if he knows his way around the city he can find out a lot more. I'll buy, not when everyone's trying to buy, but when no one is. That's how fortunes are made, buying what no one wants and selling it when everyone's wild to buy. Philippe Manigault doesn't get carried away by the enthusiasm of crowds. He's a man apart, a speculator with ice water flowing through his veins."
Monique smiled at him. “You can do it, I know you can. This is our lucky day and this is our lucky city."
"Once I make my fortune—I think a hundred thousand dollars will be sufficient—I'll swear off gambling. No more speculation, except for sport, of course, the risking of a pittance here or there. I intend to invest my profits from the mine in merchandise. Groceries, clothing, lumber supplies for the mines—that's where the money's to be made. It proved true in ‘49 and it'll be as true on the Comstock. One forty-niner in a hundred made a living at his diggings, and only one in a thousand struck it rich. The ones who became wealthy were the merchants and bankers. You're looking a tomorrow's merchant prince."
They climbed the narrow steps to the second floor of the boarding house where, in the hall outside the door to their room, Philippe raised his hat to her, saying, “Wish me luck."
She glanced about, saw no one, so stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Good luck,” she said.
"How can I help but triumph over those rough-hewn men of Washoe after receiving your well-wishes?"
"You're not sorry you brought me with you?"
"Of course not. You know how my moods rise to heights only to plummet to the depths. We'll win out over this hardscrabble city before much more time has passed. Mark my words."
"We will, Philippe, you and I. I don't know how, but I'm going to find a way to help you."
He bent, kissed her quickly on the cheek and left her behind as he went down the stairs. Once outside the boarding house, he braced himself against the rising wind, one that blew nearly every day, known in the Enterprise as the “Washoe Zephyr."
"'There is a tide in the affairs of men,'” Philippe murmured, “'which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound to shallows and miseries.’”
Yesterday he'd felt his personal tide rising. It wasn't at full flood, not yet, but luck was beginning to flow his way. Today he meant to test the waters and, if that luck held, he intended to risk all he had in one coup. Fortunes weren't made, he knew, by men unwilling to risk their all, or by fearful men going through life playing at penny-ante games, but by those who sensed when the tide was in their favor and had the courage to let it sweep them upward and onward.
The first miners on the Comstock had been the cautious type, content to be bought out for a few thousand dollars. By God, there were millions to be made here! The bankers and the miners who were coming to the Washoe country were the second type, those who saw a chance, weighed the risks, then plunged in with all they had. He, Philippe Manigault, belonged to that breed.
At the Silver Dollar he crossed the sawdust-strewn floor to the gaming tables, where he risked a few dollars on faro, waiting until the box of cards was almost empty before making his bets. He won several times, lost, won again. Two steps ahead, he told himself, only one back. He lost again, then won.
Tossing a tip to the dealer, Philippe retreated to the bar.
"The usual?” the barman asked
Philippe nodded. When the drink was placed before him, he sipped the whiskey slowly. Only one drink, he told himself. Alcohol and gambling don't mix ... the combination leads to a lack of control. One drink was all right. It helped pass the time while he waited for his streak to begin.
He made the whiskey last, savoring the warm glow, sensing the tide building in his favor. Today he'd cross the line separating the many men with a few dollars from the few with thousands. He'd had this feeling before and it had never failed him.
"You're smiling, French."
Philippe turned to look at the bearded miner who'd come to stand next to him at the bar. “The winds of fortune are beginning to blow in my direction,” Philippe said. “It's not a breeze, either. There's a veritable Washoe zephyr on the way."
"I felt the same last week,” the miner said. “Thought I'd found myself a bonanza, the outcropping of a vein leading to the mother lode. Turned out it was nothing, assayed at less than ten dollars a ton. Barrasca! I ain't seen nothing but hard times these last five years."
"Let me buy you a drink, friend,” Philippe said, “and perhaps my luck will rub off on you.” He threw a silver dollar on the bar.
After finishing his second drink, Philippe strolled from the gambling house. Outside, the wind swirled the dust rising from the busy street. Hurrying miners crowded the boardwalks. He paused outside the Enterprise office, bought a paper for a nickel and took it into the Nevada House, where he sat in the lobby, his feet up, reading the latest mining reports.
Folding the Enterpise, he thrust it into an inside pocket of his frock coat and walked into the gambling hall off the hotel lobby. Two tables were in action, one faro, one poker. After watching for a few minutes, he sat in on the game of draw poker. The stakes were small, but after an hour he was thirty dollars to the good. Be patient, he told himself. The lucky feeling was still with him, and he knew his time was coming soon, just as on a hot and humid day a man knows rain, thunder and lightning are in the offing. But not quite yet. He cashed in his chips and left the Nevada House.
The wind had lessened, so he stopped to light a cigarillo. Passing in front of the telegraph office, he read the latest news of the fighting north of Richmond, Virginia and shook his head. Those hothead Southerners had done as he'd predicted and started a war. No good would come of it. Still, it was none of his concern.
At the post office, he asked for his mail. There was none. Not feeling hungry, he ate no lunch, spending the better part of the afternoon at the Silver Dollar, where he won seven dollars at faro and lost five playing Monte. Not yet. Be patient.
In the Lucky Seven he settled a quarrel over the author of a literary quotation and, later, at the California Emporium, another gambling house, he listened to a heated argument about the rights and wrongs of the Mormon practice of polygamy.
The sun had set behind Mount Davidson by the time he returned to the Silver Dollar. Philippe smiled, realizing there must be a reason he kept coming back to this particular gambling hall. The two drinks had long ago worn off, so he was clear-headed and getting hungry, but decided to play a few hands of poker before supper.
"Mind if I sit in, gentleman?” he asked after watching a desultory game for a few minutes.
One of the players used his foot to push out a chair, and Philippe sat down. There were four miners in the game. He'd played with three before, poor players all. The other he didn't recognize.
Philippe won slowly, steadily. The stranger played a competent
game, but the cards ran against him. The other three weak players stayed on, perhaps because they'd grown cautious in their betting, so lost less each time.
On the next hand, Philippe was dealt nothing, drew nothing and folded. He felt someone watching him. Hunching his shoulders, stacking and restacking his chips, he refused to look around. He waited.
A man strode around the table and pulled out the chair across from Philippe. He was a big man, muscular, with sandy hair and bushy eyebrows above small brown eyes. Philippe recognized him as Alex Campbell, the man who'd gunned down Daggett on the day of their arrival in Virginia City.
"Deal me in,” Campbell said.
The other men eyed the newcomer warily.
"You look like the big winner,” Campbell said to Philippe.
Philippe fingered his chips, picking them up and letting them click against each other as he dropped them back on the green cloth. “If this is big money to you, then you might say I am."
Seeing Campbell redden, Philippe smiled. This man could be goaded into making rash bets. Excitement stirred deep inside Philippe as he sensed his time was coming. The tide was rising and he was ready for it.
He lost two hands, then won a medium-sized pot, and then lost once more. He ignored the other players to concentrate on Campbell, his only real opponent. He was more than an opponent, Philippe knew. Campbell was his enemy.
Alex Campbell won his share of the pots, betting heavily when he held good cards, folding early when he had nothing. One miner dropped out of the game, followed quickly by another. Now there were only Philippe, Campbell and two others.
"No cards,” Campbell said after glancing at his next hand. Philippe noticed him look right and left and heard him clear his throat. Philippe and one of the miners had folded. Campbell raised twenty dollars, the other miner threw in his cards and Campbell raked in the pot. Philippe, watching closely, was sure Campbell had been bluffing.
Three hands later, Campbell bet twenty collars, looked right and left again and cleared his throat. He's bluffing again, Philippe thought. This time one of the miners called him and, sure enough, Campbell held nothing, as Philippe had suspected.