Feeling sheepish, I stood up and took the gun. It was small—with a barrel only about four inches long—but it was heavy for its size. It had a walnut grip & it felt natural in my hand.
Sam Clemens said, “That is a Smith and Wesson’s number one seven-shooter.”
“I have heard of these,” I said. “The ball and charge and cap are all in one cartridge.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Some people call them Rimfire Cartridges. That little gun is the latest thing. All you have to do is cock it and fire.”
“Where is the trigger?”
“That is called a spur trigger. When you cock the pistol it pops out.”
I flipped the barrel back on itself & took out the cylinder & saw it was loaded with seven of those new Rimfire Cartridges. I unloaded the revolver & replaced the cylinder & flipped the barrel & cocked it. Sure enough, a little trigger popped out. I tried it out a few times, pulling the trigger and hearing it go click. It looked strange, but it worked fine.
“Cunning, ain’t it?” said Sam Clemens. He pulled a handful of spare cartridges from his pocket and laid them on the table.
I knew my foster pa & ma would not approve. But my Indian ma would. She had taught me to shoot a rifle & a revolver. I suspected my Detective pa would be pleased, too.
As I fed some cartridges back into the cylinder I said, “Twenty-two caliber?”
“That’s right,” he said. “It has a ball like a homeopathic pill and it takes all seven to make a full dose for an adult.”
I did not know what a homeopathic pill was, but a .22 caliber ball is about the smallest ball you can get.
“The other problem,” said Sam Clemens, “is that it will not hit anything. One of my pals once fired this at a cow. As long as the cow stood still she was safe.”
I finished loading the gun & snapped the cylinder into place & looked up at him. “If I take this, then won’t you be defenseless?”
Sam Clemens sat down again & puffed on his pipe. “I have a Colt’s Navy Revolver in my bunk next door. I suppose I will have to wear it so as not to be conspicuous by its absence. I would be just as happy to give you that, but it could actually harm someone. That feeble little seven-shooter would not hurt a flea. It is just for looks.”
“So if I were to aim this gun at that picture of the mountain on the wall?” I said.
“You most likely would not hit it. But it looks good and you can scare people off with it.”
I started to put the revolver in the right-hand pocket of my buckskins but quickly remembered I was wearing a pink calico dress. So I put the revolver & spare cartridges in my medicine bag. The gun’s walnut grip stuck out a little. But that would make it easy to get at. I slipped the pouch under the neck of my dress. The bulge was not very noticeable.
The door opened & a boy about my age came in with a steaming pitcher. I could smell whiskey, milk, honey & nutmeg.
“The milk punch you ordered, sir,” said the boy. He had light brown hair with a cowlick, and a scattering of freckles across his nose. He put the jug down near Sam. Then he saw me & his eyes opened wide.
“Why, hello, miss,” he said, taking off his hat & pressing it over his heart. “I do not believe we have met.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “Are you new in town? You are real pretty. I believe I would like to steal a kiss from you.”
“You’re the Printer’s Devil, ain’t you?” said Sam Clemens, taking a dusty glass from a shelf.
“Yes, sir.”
“What is your name, boy?”
“Horace, sir.”
“Well, Horace,” said Sam Clemens, “I suggest you leave your courting to another day.” He poured some of the creamy liquid into the glass. “Now skedaddle.”
“Yes, sir,” stammered Horace. He walked towards the door. Because he was still looking at me, he bumped into it. Then he blushed & hurried out.
“What is a Printer’s Devil?” I asked.
“Just another name for an apprentice printer,” said Sam Clemens. He took a sip & then smacked his lips. “Milk punch,” he said. “One of mankind’s greatest inventions.” He drank long & deeply & when he put his glass down I saw his dusty mustache was tipped with the whiskey-tainted milk.
He was pouring himself a second glassful when the door opened & Dan De Quille came in again.
“I told the Marshal about your parents, P.K.,” he said, removing his hat and hanging it on the hat stand. “He and his Deputy are on their way down to Temperance right now. I looked in at the Colombo Restaurant but Belle was not there.”
He pulled up a chair and said, “You say Belle took your Letter, the one Walt and his pards were after?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Can you remember what that Letter said?”
“I can remember exactly what it said. You show me something once, I never forget it.”
Ledger Sheet 19
THE OTHER WANTED POSTER of Whittlin Walt lay face up on the table. Dan De Quille turned it over and pushed a pencil towards me.
“Write down as much about that Letter as you can remember,” he said. “We have got to figure out why Walt wants that document so badly. Sam,” he said, “pour me a mug of that punch. I could use a stiff drink.”
While the two reporters drank Milk Punch, I reproduced the Letter as faithfully as I could. I even added the illegible signature and my pa’s witness. Then I slid it over for them to inspect.
Dan De Quille and Sam Clemens both bent their heads over my reproduction of the Letter.
After a while Dan looked up at me. “Well, P.K.,” he said, “I am not sure, but if your letter is genuine and if you can recover it, then you might have a claim to part of Mount Davidson. That would make you owner of half the mines here in Virginia. You could be a millionaire.”
Sam Clemens choked on his milk punch & some of it spurted out his nose. Dan De Quille patted him on the back. A cloud of pale yellow alkali dust puffed up. “Sam,” he said, “go take a bath. Your story about the hay wagons will do for today, I think.”
“A millionaire?” said Sam Clemens, dabbing his face with his dusty handkerchief. “This calico-clad Indian could be a millionaire?”
“Selfridge and Bach’s Bath House down on B Street is good,” said Dan De Quille. “The water is hot and changed fairly frequently. They are open until midnight. Tell Bach to burn the clothes you are wearing now.”
Sam Clemens looked down at his dusty limbs. Then he scratched his armpit. “You are probably right. I do believe I am lousy. But this is all I’ve got to wear,” he said. He looked at me. “Maybe the millionaire will loan me a dollar or two?”
Dan De Quille sighed & stood up. He reached into his pocket & flipped Sam Clemens a gold coin. “There is twenty dollars,” he said. “Bach will give you something to wear. Claim a bunk in the shed next door. You can pay me back when you get your first week’s wages.”
Sam Clemens nodded. “That is a good plan.” He stuck his pipe in his mouth & strode on long legs to the door.
Just before he went out he turned & said to me, “I hope it works out for you, P.K. I seldom pray, but I believe I will make an exception in your case.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “And thank you for the seven-shooter.”
When the door closed behind him Dan De Quille turned to look at me. “Seven-shooter?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Sam Clemens kindly gave me his Smith and Wesson’s number one seven-shooter. It is the latest thing with the ball and charge and cap all packed together in a metal cartridge.”
“Do you know how to operate a firearm?”
“Yes, sir. I know how to shoot a gun.”
“Probably not a bad idea, then,” said Dan De Quille. “Everybody in this town packs a piece of some sort.” He patted the Colt’s Navy Revolver in his own belt. Then he sat
down & studied my Letter again. “P.K.,” he said, “have you ever heard the name Grosh?”
“No, sir,” I said. And then a thought struck me. “Do you think that could be the last name of the man who wrote the Letter? Whose signature I could not decipher?”
“I do,” said Dan De Quille. “Here in Virginia the name Grosh is legendary. Hosea Ballou Grosh and Ethan Allen Grosh were brothers. They had been over in California at a place called Volcano. They were mining experts who came here about ten years ago to look for silver. Silver, do you hear me? Not gold.”
“Silver,” I repeated.
“That is correct,” said Dan De Quille. “Now, there were already some miners here. They were spillovers from the Big California Gold Rush of ’49. They made a little money by placer mining but when they tried to dig they found only a heavy blue mud. Those miners cursed it, but the Grosh Brothers realized that blue mud contained silver. In 1856 they wrote to their father back east that they had found rich ledges of silver up in Gold Canyon and that one of those ledges was a ‘perfect monster.’”
“Is that good?” I asked.
“That is very good,” said Dan De Quille. “The Grosh Brothers were on the brink of becoming fabulously rich. But they died before they could stake their claim.”
At that moment the door of the Territorial Enterprise swung open with a bang as loud as a gunshot. Dan and I both jumped up out of our chairs.
It was not Whittlin Walt at the door, but a smiling Chinaman in loose blue pantaloons and shirt like Ping’s.
“Hello, Joe,” said Dan De Quille. And to me he said, “Old Joe here is our cook. Most of the boys eat next door but he sometimes brings me a special dinner.”
I nodded a greeting. This must be Ping’s uncle.
“Hello, Mister Dan,” said Old Joe. “You hungry? You want special dinner?”
“I am ravenous,” said Dan De Quille. “I could eat an entire steer, horns and all. How about you, P.K.?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I am ravenous, too.”
“We have no steer tonight,” said Old Joe. “Them boys ate it, horns and all.”
Dan grinned. “Well then, how about one of your late-night breakfasts?” He turned to me. “What’ll you have to drink? Milk? Sarsaparilla? Whiskey?”
“I am partial to black coffee,” I said.
Dan De Quille nodded & turned to Old Joe. “Two coffees,” he said. “And bring us a stack of pancakes and bacon with some of that good maple syrup. Not the sorghum syrup, Joe. The maple syrup.”
Old Joe bowed, and when he turned to go, I saw he had a gray pigtail so long that it reached past his waist.
Dan De Quille said to me, “Where was I?”
“The Grosh Brothers and their monster ledge of silver,” I said.
“That’s right. Well, the Grosh Brothers tested this monster vein and they found it to be beautifully soft and untainted by other metals. But to get out the silver, they needed money.”
Dan sat back & smiled. “There is a famous saying hereabouts. You need a gold mine to afford a silver mine. So they determined to go back to Volcano and get some financial backers. But before they could leave, Hosea put a pickaxe through his foot. Sadly, the wound festered and he died in September. Ethan was grief-stricken and tempted to give up. He rallied his spirits and decided to stay on and mine that monster vein of silver, but first he had to bury his brother.”
I nodded again & thought of my dead foster parents, lying scalped & unburied. I hoped the Marshal would take care of their bodies.
Dan De Quille said, “By the time he had paid off the expenses of his brother’s burial, it was mid-November. They say you should never cross the Sierra Nevada Mountains after October. Ethan Allen Grosh and his companion—a young Canadian called Bucke—took a gamble in crossing the mountains so late in the season.” Dan shook his head. “Their gamble did not pay off.”
I sat forward. I had heard the terrible tale of a family called Donner who had been caught in a blizzard in those same mountains. Some had died of hunger & the others had only survived by eating the frozen bodies of their companions.
“Was he froze in a blizzard and eaten by his companion?” I said.
“No, but they were caught in a heavy snowfall and they did have to eat their donkey. They threw away all their belongings, including maps, claims and samples. By the time they reached the Last Chance Mining Camp, their feet were so badly frozen that they had to be amputated.”
I shuddered. I knew amputation was when they cut parts off of you.
I tried to imagine having no feet.
I could not do it.
“Bucke survived,” said Dan De Quille, “but poor Ethan Allen died. There is a rumor that he wrote a Deed for that monster silver vein on his deathbed. When Bucke recovered, he searched but could not find it anywhere. Still, there were other people there in the Last Chance Mining Camp. Perhaps one of them took it. Ethan Allen Grosh’s lost Deed is the Holy Grail of this region. Anyone who finds it and presents it would be rich as Creesus.”
Ledger Sheet 20
“WHAT IS A HOLY GRAIL?” I asked. “And who is Creesus?”
“A Holy Grail is an Object of Great Desire. And Creesus was the richest fellow who ever lived.” Dan De Quille stood up. “Your stolen document claims the land north of the Divide and south of the Stream on Sun Peak near Pleasant Town.” He pointed at a picture on the wall. “This is a Panoramic View of Virginia City done just last year. Sun Peak is the former name of Mount Davidson, to whose side we are clinging at this very moment.”
“And Pleasant Town?”
“Virginia City is Pleasant Town,” said Dan. “It got its new name two years ago when a drunken miner named ‘Old Virginny’ Finney fell and broke a bottle of whiskey on a rock. Not wanting that whiskey to go to waste, he christened this place Old Virginny, after himself. This amused the locals and the name Virginia stuck.”
“Like Dayton,” I said. “Which used to be known as Chinatown.”
Dan nodded. “The fact that your missing document names ‘Sun Peak’ and ‘Pleasant Town’ rather than ‘Mount Davidson’ and ‘Virginia City’ indicates that it may well be genuine.”
“What else would it be?” I said.
“A clever forgery.”
At that moment, the door swung open with a crash. We both started.
Old Joe the Chinaman came in with a tray.
“Dang it all, Joe,” said Dan. “Don’t fling open the door like that.”
“Beg pardon, Mister Dan,” said Old Joe. He put the tray on the long table & took off two plates of pancakes & a jug of syrup & two mugs of black coffee. There was also a dish of yellow butter—molded into the shape of a dragon—and some cutlery.
“Bring me some cream for my coffee, Joe,” said Dan De Quille as Old Joe went out. “You never remember my cream.”
“Chop, chop!” said Old Joe, and hurried out.
“Tuck in, P.K.,” said Dan De Quille. “But watch out for the butter. Joe likes to mold it in pretty shapes, but he often gets mouse hairs and bugs and other trash in there.”
I was hungry & the pancakes were delicious. There were not too many hairs in the butter.
“This reminds me,” said Dan as he poured maple syrup onto his stack of pancakes. “There is a rumor that Old Pancake himself befriended the Grosh Brothers, in order to discover their secret. Some even say they made him a partner.”
“Who is Old Pancake?” I asked.
“Why, Old Pancake is Henry Comstock,” said Dan. “He gave his name to the Ledge we are sitting on, though whether there is one single ledge or many is a moot point. Old Pancake barged in on two other miners who had just discovered a lead. He cut an impressive figure in his store-bought suit and when he claimed the land was his, they believed him. Now the whole mother lode is named after hi
m.”
“Why do people call him ‘Old Pancake’?” I asked.
Dan chuckled. “They say he was too lazy to bake bread from his flour and so he always made pancakes.”
I said, “Or maybe he just liked pancakes better than bread, like me. On special days, Ma Evangeline always makes . . .” I trailed off and stared at the floor. For a moment I had forgotten about my dear foster ma lying dead on the floor of our cabin. I would never eat her pancakes again.
We ate in silence for a few minutes, then Dan De Quille picked up the wanted poster with my replica Letter on the back & frowned. “You know,” he said, “one thing about that document puzzles me.”
“What is that?”
“I find it strange that Ethan Allen Grosh would bequeath all his land to ‘The Bearer’ and not to his father back east or to any of his partners in Volcano or even to Bucke, his companion.”
I said, “Maybe my pa was one of those people in the Last Chance Mining Camp and maybe he helped Ethan Allen Grosh and he wanted to thank my pa. And maybe Pa told him to make it out to ‘The Bearer’ because he planned to send it to me and my ma, so we would not be poor anymore.”
“Maybe.” Dan put the wanted poster back on the table, face up. “Whatever the reason,” he said, mopping up the last of his maple syrup with his final forkful of pancake, “I believe the first person to present that document at the Recorder’s Office could have a claim to half this mountain and the silver in it. No wonder Walt wants it so badly.”
“What if Belle were to take that Letter to the Recorder’s Office?” I asked.
Dan De Quille shrugged. “Then the fortune would be hers.”
“But that Letter is mine,” I said.
“Then you’d better get it back before tomorrow morning,” said Dan.
For a third time that evening, the door burst open with a bang.
Dan De Quille sighed deeply & said, “Joe, I told you not to fling open that door.”
The Case of the Deadly Desperados Page 7
