Walt was down there somewhere. Maybe he was still falling. Or maybe he was being cooked. The world was well rid of him.
Flickering candlelight showed a glint of metal there in the dust and I saw it was my Smith & Wesson’s seven-shooter. It must have flown out of Walt’s hand as he dropped down the abyss. I am not sure what Pa Emmet would have said but I offered up a prayer of thanks.
I went around the hole and picked up the pistol. I managed to flip it open with just one hand and to replace the spent charges with fresh cartridges.
At that point I felt sick and had to vomit.
I know I had promised Ma Evangeline I would never drink liquor, but the taste of vomit was sour in my mouth and Walt had knocked over my coffeepot of alkali water. So I went back to the crate of whiskey & took one of the bottles & smashed the neck & poured some whiskey into the tin can I had been drinking from.
It tasted foul but it revived me and made the throbbing in my left arm more bearable.
I needed to keep my wits about me.
Boz and Extra Dub could be here any moment. But now that I was doubly armed, I could try to make my way back out.
I picked up Walt’s Army Revolver, which I had put down on the crate. It was hard to check the cylinder of that big gun with just one hand, but I managed to determine how many charges remained. I also managed to tuck my buckskin shirt into my buckskin pants. Then, making sure Walt’s big revolver was between chambers, I stuck it inside my shirt. The gun was hard & bumpy against my chest, so I stuck the ledger sheets down there for padding. Finally I picked up the tin lamp and some other things that had fallen down. I managed to relight the lamp using just my right hand.
I now had a light that could not easily be extinguished and two firearms. If either of Walt’s men appeared, I was prepared. Of course, I had promised my dying ma I would not take a man’s life, but I could always shoot them in the legs. That would discourage them from following me.
It is mighty difficult to climb spiral stairs with only one good arm to hold on, especially if you are tired & dizzy & holding a lamp in your teeth with a sheaf of papers & a big gun down your shirt. But after a long time I managed to reach the next level. It was the big gallery. I put down the lamp & rested a little with my back against the great vein of quartz. I was dripping with sweat & blood & candle grease.
I must have passed out for a moment because something woke me.
It was some rats moving nearby, just outside the circle of lamplight.
And there was another sound: the sound of feet coming down the ladder.
I stood up & nearly passed out again, but after a few breaths I was able to move away from the circle of light cast by my tin lamp.
I hid behind an upright beam, & sure enough I saw another glow of light growing stronger as it descended.
I reached into the neck of my buckskin shirt & pulled out the big Colt’s Army Revolver & I took a deep breath & I quietly pulled back the stiff hammer.
“P.K.?” came a familiar voice in a Southern drawl. “P.K., are you down here?”
I recognized the voice of Poker Face Jace.
“Jace!” I said. “Is that you? Are you alive?” My voice was real feeble but he heard me. I saw him coming out of the dark towards me. The oil lamp he carried illuminated him from below & it almost looked as if he was smiling.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m alive.”
I released the hammer on the revolver & put it back in my shirt. “I thought Walt’s pard shot you,” I said.
“I was saved by Stonewall’s quick action,” said Jace, “and by a pack of cards in my breast pocket. The ball hit me there and knocked me down. Stonewall swears he hit one of Walt’s henchmen, but they both got away.” He held his lamp up to my blood-soaked arm. “But how are you?”
“I am tolerable,” I said. “Walt winged me with my own seven-shooter but he is burning in Hellfire about now.”
“That is good news,” said Jace. “Can you hang on to my lamp? I can’t hold both you and it.”
I nodded & took his lamp with my good hand.
He swung me up into his arms & carried me back to the bottom of the ladder. He smelled of cigar smoke & coffee. It was a nice smell.
“I’ve got him!” he yelled up. “I’ve got P.K.”
“Do you need help?” The deep voice was Stonewall’s, seeming to come from miles above.
“No!” called Jace. “I can manage.” Then he looked at me. “Do you mind if I sling you over my shoulder?”
“Go right ahead,” I said.
He started to put me gently over his shoulder but stopped. “Jesus!” he said. “What have you got in there?”
“It’s Walt’s revolver,” I said.
“Better let me take that,” he said. I pulled out the Colt’s Army Revolver & gave it to him. He stuck it in his belt & hiked me up. I tried not to cry out from the pain in my arm as he got me settled. I was still holding the lamp in my right hand. As he went up & up, its light showed me how far we would fall if the ladder broke. I clung on & prayed that I would not pass out or be sick again.
When we finally reached the top of the ladder, Stonewall was there with another lamp.
His ugly happy face was a sight to behold.
The blood was whooshing in my ears & my arm was throbbing. I must have passed out for a moment because when I opened my eyes I was no longer upside down. I was in Stonewall’s arms & Jace was walking beside us, holding both lamps.
We were in that long dark tunnel, just passing the black pony at her whim. Apart from the three of us & the horse, the mine was still deserted. I could not understand it.
Finally I saw the wonderful yellow glimmer of daylight. At last we emerged into dazzling sunshine & fresh air as welcome to me as a drink of cool water. If I had been strong enough I would have kissed the ground.
I thought, “I will never go in a tunnel again.”
The light hurt my eyes & I shaded them with my good hand. After a while I could make out a crowd of men standing around.
“There wasn’t a cave-in,” called Jace. “You can all go back to work now.”
“See that there?” growled Stonewall in my ear. He tipped his head towards a sign outside the mine entrance. It read: DO NOT ENTER. CAVE IN.
“Do you mean to say it’s all a joke?” said a man in wire-rimmed spectacles. I could see about a hundred whiskered miners all clumped up behind him.
“Yep,” said Jace. “Whittlin Walt played a bad joke on you today. But don’t you worry. He won’t be playing any more jokes, will he, P.K.?”
“No, sir,” I said.
Stonewall moved back as the men surged forward & their foreman began barking orders.
As Stonewall carried me away from the entrance of the Mexican Mine, Jace leaned in & said, “That is why it took us so long to find you. Walt must have put up that sign. All the mine people thought it was real.”
“How did you know I’d be here then?”
Stonewall was carrying me down the mountain, & Jace was walking beside us in long easy strides.
Jace said, “A lot of people saw Walt chasing you but it was a little girl who lives in a mansion up here on A Street who finally told us. She was looking out her window early Sunday morning & she saw you run into the mouth of the Mexican Mine. She told her pa and he told the Marshal and the Marshal told me. I went down to his office this morning to see if there was any news of you,” he added.
I thought, “Who could that little girl have been?”
Jace was still talking. “When we saw Boz & Extra Dub lurking up there on the ridge, we figured Walt was down the mine.”
“Where are Boz and Extra Dub now?”
Jace said, “When they saw us coming they got on their horses and vamoosed. There’s warrants out on them.”
“How long was I down
there?”
“About thirty hours.”
“Only one day? It felt like a week.”
Jace grinned. “Nope. It’s only Monday. Monday lunchtime. What do you say to a cup of black coffee and a piece of cake?”
I said, “Bee.”
“Beg pardon?” said Jace.
I said, “Was the little girl’s name Bee Bloomfield?”
“I’m not sure,” said Jace, “but here she comes. You can ask her yourself.”
Ledger Sheet 47
“SO,” SAID SAM CLEMENS as the doctor cut away the buckskin sleeve, “it appears I was wrong. That little seven-shooter can hit after all.”
“Yes, it can,” I said. “And it hurts like hell. Pardon my French. Anyhow, I am not talking to you. You are a lying, two-faced Varmint.”
We were in the lean-to annex of the Territorial Enterprise on A Street. Sam Clemens had been going to investigate the alleged “Cave-In” and had seen me with Jace & Stonewall & Bee Bloomfield. He told them to bring me there & he sent Horace the Printer’s Devil to fetch a doctor.
I was lying on one of the bunk beds on crumpled sheets. Jace & Stonewall and some newspapermen were crowded around me as the doctor examined my arm. Bee Bloomfield was there, too. She was holding the pan for the doctor.
“Why do you call me a lying, two-faced Varmint?” said Sam Clemens. “I confess I can be two-faced and I have also been known to lie, but why a Varmint?”
I said, “Because you told Whittlin Walt my real Indian name and all sorts of other things.”
Sam Clemens said, “He threatened to take off one of my ears if I did not give him some information about you. I figured your Indian name was the least harmful thing I could tell him.”
“It was not the least harmful thing you could have told him,” I said to Sam Clemens. “Whittlin Walt pretended to be my pa. And because he knew my Indian name, he almost convinced me.”
“What is your Indian name?” asked Poker Face Jace. “I would like to know.”
Sam Clemens opened his mouth but I said, “Don’t you dare tell.”
“Swallow this,” said the doctor, handing me a glass with a few inches of pale yellow liquid. He was a white-haired man with oval spectacles.
“What is it?”
“Laudanum. It will kill the pain while I probe for the ball.”
The doctor lifted my head & Bee brought the glass to my mouth & helped me drink it down. It tasted strange & made my mouth tingle.
“How did you figure out Walt was lying?” said Poker Face Jace.
I lay back on a pillow. “He rubbed the back of his neck and he shook his head,” I said. “But the real giveaway was when he stopped chewing his tobacco. That’s when I knew he was bluffing.”
“Bravo,” said Jace. “You are a fast learner. It took me an hour to figure that out.”
“I am a good liar,” remarked Sam Clemens. “I made sixteen hay wagons where there was only one. But I am not a Varmint.”
I felt kind of warm & floating. “You have strange ears,” I said to Sam Clemens. “They have no lobes.”
“What about my ears?” said Bee, pushing back her curls and turning her head.
“They are real whirly,” I said.
“I think the laudanum is taking effect,” said the doctor. “I’ll have a look for that ball now.” He smiled at me. “So, young man, I gather your name is Pinkerton, like mine.”
“You are called Pinkerton?” I said.
“I am. Doctor Thomas H. Pinkerton. You a relative of the Chicago Pinkertons?”
“I thought I was,” I said. “But now I am not sure.”
I felt sick. But it might have been because Doc Pinkerton was fishing around in my arm for a metal ball.
“Do not be cast down,” said Sam Clemens. “You ain’t the first and you won’t be the last not to know who your pa is.”
“One thing I do know,” I said, “is that I feel like a Pinkerton. I mean, I like solving mysteries and figuring out how things work. And I kind of like Disguises, too.”
“Eureka,” said the doctor. He held up a pea-sized ball between the prongs of his tweezers. “Here is the culprit. A twenty-two caliber ball.”
“Ball like a homeopathic pill,” said Sam Clemens. “It would take a bigger dose than that to kill Pinky here. Still, maybe I should take back my seven-shooter.”
“Please may I keep it?” I said. “Even though it shot me?” I looked at Sam Clemens. “I hope you don’t write about this,” I said. “If you do, then Walt’s men might come back and take revenge.”
He sighed a deep sigh. “Yes, you may keep that gun and no, I will not write about it.” Then he lowered his voice and brought his head close. “I have just had an idea of an Indian massacre based on your story,” he whispered. “I will use that instead. With your permission.”
“You are welcome to it,” I said.
From across the room a voice said, “Poker Face Jace may believe in twitches and ticks, but I am not convinced. Are you sure Walt was not your pa?” It was the young man with the plug hat & walking stick who had been drinking with Sam Clemens.
“That is Mr. Joe Goodman,” said Sam under his breath. “Owner of the Territorial Enterprise and my boss.”
“I am sure Walt was not my pa,” I said. “I got him to admit it.”
“How?” said several people at once.
“Simple,” I said. “I told him I was really a girl and not a boy. And that if he was really my pa he would have known that. That flummoxed him and he started babbling.”
They all stared at me. They looked pretty flummoxed themselves. Sam Clemens’s pipe had fallen out of his mouth.
Jace glanced around at them and rubbed the back of his neck. “But you were just joshing, weren’t you, P.K.? It was just a Bluff to get him to Show His Hand, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. I felt all warm & floaty. “It was a Bluff to get him to Show His Hand. And it worked.”
Ledger Sheet 48
THE NEXT AFTERNOON I finally made it to the Recorder’s Office across the street from the Territorial Enterprise. I was dressed in a mixture of Indian, miner & tony boy getup. To replace my bloody buckskin shirt, Isaiah Coffin had given me a soft & faded flannel shirt that had once been red, plus a dark blue jacket with brass buttons. I wore my own fringed buckskin pants & my soft buckskin moccasins & the black slouch hat with the hawk feather that Jace had given me. And of course I had my medicine bag, tucked out of sight.
I had been to the Notary Public on B Street. They had stamped something for me & I had brought it over to the Recorder’s Office on A Street. Word must have got around because by the time I got to the Recorder’s Office I was trailing a group of interested spectators & friends, including Dan De Quille, just back from Carson City & mighty relieved to be in one piece.
There were already two dozen men in the Recorder’s Office, bushy & bearded, dusty & lousy, all clamoring to record their claims, but when they saw me with my left arm in a sling they parted like the Red Sea before Moses.
“There he is!” said one in a thick Cornish accent. “The boy who kilt Whittlin Walt.”
“Heard he shot him between the eyes with a Smith and Wesson’s seven-shooter,” said another.
“I heard he rassled him down to the ground, then tossed him into a bottomless pit full of boiling water.”
“Whittlin Walt is probably still falling,” said a third beard, rubbing the palms of his hands together.
“How can a pit be bottomless and have boiling water in it, too?” asked the first miner.
“Good morning, young man,” said the man behind the counter. He had bushy ginger eyebrows & a mustache like two foxes’ tails hanging down either side of his nose. A sign on the desk told me that he was: MR. RUFUS E. ARICK, RECORDER. “Do you have
a claim to register?”
“Not exactly, sir,” I said. I handed him the piece of paper in my hand. “But I have this.”
Mr. Rufus E. Arick frowned at it. “This is a wanted poster,” he said. “For Walt Darmitage—alias Whittlin Walt—wanted in four states and territories for murder, theft and torture. It says REWARD TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS.” He looked at me. “To collect your reward you must go to see the Marshal. Who’s next?”
“Wait,” I said. “Turn it over.”
“What?”
“Look on the back of the wanted poster.”
Mr. Rufus E. Arick turned the piece of paper over. There on the back I had glued together all the little scraps of the Letter I had tore up. I had found all the pieces but one and that one was near the top, in an unimportant part of the document. There were some blood spots on them but you could still read the writing.
He looked at the glued-together Letter. Then he looked at me. Then he looked back at the glued-together Letter.
“Son, is this what you have to give me? I am not certain this is a legal document.”
“Look right there,” I said. “It is signed and witnessed. Signed by Ethan Allen Grosh and witnessed by Robert Pinkerton in November 1857.”
Rufus E. Arick shook his head slowly. “Even if it is legal, so much time has elapsed: nearly five years. You’d certainly have to take it to court. Legal battle like this could last months. They will fight you to the bitter end.”
I said, “Who is ‘they’?”
“Why, half the mine owners in Virginia City. This letter threatens them all. The only people who will get rich off this are the Lawyers.”
I felt my heart sink down to my moccasins. Had I risked my life for nothing?
“Never mind, little pard,” said one of the bushy miners. “That’s life on the Comstock. Bonanza one day and borrasca the next.”
“I will buy that Letter,” said a voice from the doorway.
Ledger Sheet 49
EVERYBODY IN THE RECORDER’'S OFFICE TURNED.
The man in the doorway wore a black frock coat & gray trousers. He was blond & clean-shaven, apart from fluffy side whiskers. “My name is Billy Chollar,” he said, “and I own the Chollar Mine.”
The Case of the Deadly Desperados Page 18
