Spur: Nevada Hussy

by Dirk Fletcher

  Down near the tracks there were only a few scattered, one story houses. A half block up the street from the Julia mine stood a three floor boarding house. Security around here would not be hard, and he was sure the mine guards and the sheriff had planned how the gold and silver bars would be loaded. Most of the raw metal would be in standard ten pound bars.

  He watched the men coming to work in the mines. The temperature on the surface was around sixty degrees this brisk October morning. The elevation of 6,025 feet put an added nip in the air. But Spur knew that the deeper the men went into the ground, the hotter it would become. Soon they would be in steaming tunnels and drifts where the temperature would reach as high as a hundred and eight degrees. Most of the men threw off their clothes and worked in the briefest of loincloths.

  Many could labor at the tunnel face only fifteen minutes before they staggered out to pipes of fresh air and barrels of ice water and to douse their heads in cold running water.

  Spur wondered why men put themselves through such torture, but he knew why: to make a wage that was barely livable.

  An hour later he had breakfast. He then walked to the Little Gold Hill Mine, the first major discovery made in the area back in 1859. He asked to see the president of the company and was shunted to a vice president who quickly told Spur that they had three lawyers in town and two firms in San Francisco that took care of their legal needs.

  Spur thanked him and left.

  A half hour later he sat in the office of the president of the Crown Point Mine. The man said the site had been worked out and they were in the process of refinancing so they could do some more exploration at deeper levels. They really had no use for a lawyer.

  Spur left at once. He did not care what each of the owners said, he was simply setting up a pattern so he could call on his main target for the morning, Rush Sommers out at the Consolidated California Mine. He knew the mine had been worked out once, but then new money had driven shafts and drifts down into the sixteen-fifty foot level where a huge pocket of ore had been opened last year.

  When he gave his name to the young man in the outer office, he was ushered in at once to an ornate room that looked more living room than business center: thick rugs on the floor, fine, overstuffed furniture, oil paintings on the wall, and fine china set for a midday dinner at one side.

  "Mr. Sommers?" Spur said, holding out his hand.

  The large man rose slowly from his chair and nodded. "Yes, and you must be this Spur McCoy I've been hearing about trying to find himself a job here in town. Enough people going bankrupt that there should be lots of business for a lawyer."

  "The fact is, Mr. Sommers, I'm not having much luck. Since your company seems to be in the middle of a big vein, I thought you might want to tidy up any of the business items that have been overlooked in the rush to produce."

  "Alstairs and Johnson, best law firm in town, handles all of our work. They are right on top of everything." Sommers said it as he quickly evaluated the big man facing him. He was disgustingly slender, and muscled. His eyes were hard and he wore a six-gun on his thigh.

  "I've never seen a lawyer with a gun tied so low before. Why is that, Mr. McCoy?"

  "Old habit. Put some time in as a sheriff in a little town as I read for the law. Just kind of feels comfortable there."

  "Yes, I imagine it would. I've always admired men who weren't afraid to wear a gun like that. Kind of an open challenge for any fast gun to call you out and draw down."

  "Not sure about other men, but I never have that kind of problem."

  "Mmmmmm. Never can tell when we might need a new hand on our legal work. From a general standpoint, just where do you stand on the principal of lateral support when applied underground?"

  Spur chuckled. "You trying to trap me, Mr. Sommers? Plain to see that there isn't any need for lateral support underground. Say your claim is following a vein and works in an area that is vertically under the claim stakes of another mine. You are legally correct in following your claim into any section, as long as it is contiguous. This is true even though you have penetrated under the claim of someone else. Your claim, your ore no matter where it wanders.

  "However, the problem comes in your failure to shore up under the large room or cavern or pocket of ore, say forty to fifty feet tall, and the surface claimant sustains a loss when his tunnels above your working area cave into your digs."

  Sommers nodded.

  "Just checking. Surprised how many people claim they are one thing these days, when they don't know their ass from a mineshaft."

  "That's always been a big problem in my professsion, Mr. Sommers. Men claiming to be lawyers who don't know a tort from a brief. One of these days we'll have rigid standards of education and special tests to pass and a whole system of ethics set up controlling the legal profession."

  Sommers stood. "It's been interesting talking to you, Mr. McCoy. Perhaps we'll meet again. This is a small town."

  Spur thanked him for a time, and walked out of the office. He had absolutely neutral feelings about Rush Sommers. The man was fifty, maybe fiftyfive. He seemed to know what he was doing, ran a big and successful mine. Why would a man like him even think about stealing thirty million worth of gold and silver?

  Outside Spur changed his mind. Nobody needed a reason to steal thirty million dollars. The money itself was the reason.

  He continued down the street, then up several more until he came to the Belcher Mine. Inside a friendly face grinned at him.

  "About time you got here. What's the idea of job hunting at half the mines in town before you come here? I told you to see me this morning." The speaker was Tracy Belcher, her smile an ore car wide and her arm soon linked through his as she steered him toward an adjoining room.

  She ignored the others in the large outer office next to the mine, closed the door and poured whisky mixed with branch water without asking him and gave him one.

  "Here's to friendship," she said. "May it grow stronger and stronger each day."

  Spur lifted his glass and drank. It was good whisky.

  "Now what's this about your looking for work?"

  "Looking over the field."

  "Stop looking, you're hired. We paid our last lawyer two hundred a month, is that enough?"

  "Plenty, but I can't go to work for a week."

  "Fine, no rush." She took another long pull at the stiff drink and laughed. "I have one rule, no hanky-panky in the office. At home, in a restaurant, hell, out in the desert, but not in the office. Not after you're working here." She went to the door and silently slid a bolt into place, then began unbuttoning her dress top as she walked toward Spur.

  "You've been staring at my titties. Want to see them all uncovered?" She said the words softly and stopped in front of him and opened her dress and lifted the white silk chemise. Her pink-white half orbs jiggled invitingly. Large reddish areolas circled brown nipples that seemed to quiver with excitement.

  Spur didn't move.

  She pushed hard against Spur's chest and reached up to kiss him, pulling his head down with one hand. The long, hot kiss caused her to growl deep in her throat.

  "Go ahead, Spur. You can play with my titties. They won't break. They do like to get kissed, too."

  Spur bent and kissed each thoroughly, biting the pulsating nipples. When he straightened her eyes were closed. He kissed her nose and her lids flew open.

  "First some business. What do you know about Rush Sommers?"

  "He's a sonofabitch I wouldn't trust from one of my tits to the other. He's a grasping bastard who kills more men in his mines than the rest of the owners combined. He's out for the most money he can make in the fewest years. He's not one of my favorite slobs. I stay away from him whenever possible."

  "If he had a chance to cheat or to steal a few million dollars, would he do it?"

  "Damn right. That bastard would steal his grandmother's fase teeth if he could make a dollar doing it!"

  She rubbed her breasts with one hand, her eyes glit
tered. "We through with business yet?"

  Spur grinned. "You're japing me about this, right?"

  "I'm serious. I want you right here, right now, without taking our clothes off. Right down on the fucking rug!"

  She lay down on the carpet, spread her legs, and then hoisted her skirt up and pulled down knee length drawers kicking them off one leg. He saw a V of black hair at her crotch and a flash of pink, wet flesh.

  "Fucker! Get your big cock down here and push it into me," she whispered.

  Spur shook his head in amazement, knelt between her spread knees and opened his fly.

  "Faster! I want you inside me right now!"

  Spur pulled out his hot pole and bent down. Her hand caught his penis and guided it, pulling him forward and lunging up at him, then she purred contentedly as Spur felt his tool slide inside her. At once she began gripping him with her vaginal muscles and relaxing until it set Spur on fire and he began pumping hard and fast. She grinned.

  "Damn, the old pussy lips still got the technique! I knew I could get you so hot you'd pop in about twenty seconds!"

  She began pounding upward at him now and in less than a minute they both climaxed in a gushing of hot breath as they tried to hold the sound down.

  Tracy grinned at him, squeezed a tear out and brushed it away. When they stopped humping Spur lifted off her and she sat up and dressed again quickly, brushed back her hair while Spur buttoned up. She led him to the door, unbolted it softly and stared at him seriously as she opened the barrier into the outer office.

  "That's a good suggestion, Mr. McCoy. You bring the whole thing written out to my house tonight, and I'll have my other lawyers look it over. I can't promise you anything. Fair enough?"

  Spur wanted to laugh but he couldn't. A thin line of sweat beaded her forehead.

  He said that would be fine. He would be there at eight o'clock as they had agreed. She winked at him and he went out the door and into the street laughing softly to himself. That was the quickest lovemaking he could remember! She had been so ready, so needing that she barely had time to get the door closed. Tonight. He would go to her place tonight and see what else he could learn about Rush Sommers. Stella had said he was the man behind the conspiracy, and Spur believed the tip more and more. Tracy's confirmation of his basic character counted a lot. Spur guessed that the lady had at some time been spurned by the big miner. But that was none of Spur's affair. He turned to other matters.

  He had his eyes down thinking about his next move and failed to see the buggy charging straight at him as he started across the street. Had he been watching there would have been no problem. Now he had to dive to the left into the dirt of the street to avoid the deadly horse hooves as they pounded into the ground where Spur had stood only seconds before.

  With fury in his eyes Spur jumped up.

  SPUR McCOY JUMPED out of the dirt and did not bother to dust himself off. Instead he raced after the buggy and horse that had almost killed him. There was a lot of traffic that morning on the narrow D Street and the buggy had to slow down. Spur charged up to it and grabbed the side of the rig to swing inside as it kept moving.

  The driver, a gray haired man with a full beard and derby hat, saw the figure lunging into the small buggy, and he jumped out the far side, giving the horse free rein.

  The horse, surprised and startled by the unusual happenings behind her, lunged ahead, dodged an oncoming freight wagon and smashed the side of the buggy on the corner post of a small restaurant. The jolt stopped the buggy so suddenly that the horse was thrown to her knees. She scrambled up, screaming in sudden pain.

  Spur had left the buggy almost as soon as the old man had, and darted after the surprisingly elusive figure. The man obviously was not as old as he appeared.

  The driver ran into the Ho Fat Chinese laundry. Spur dashed in behind him. The man had vanished. A short, rough lumber counter in front of the store barred the way. An old Chinese man with a stringy beard, eyeglasses and the ever-present braid down his back sat on a stool behind the counter smoking a water pipe. He looked at Spur with glazed eyes.

  Behind him were three rows of women scrubbing clothes on wooden and metal wash boards propped in round metal tubs. On the other side a row of women worked with sadirons. A pistol shot cracked in the narrow building. Women screamed and fell to the floor. Spur dropped behind the protection of the counter hoping it was substantially built. Another shot boomed in the confines of the laundry.

  McCoy peered over the top of the counter and saw the man, now without the gray hair or gray beard, dash through the back door and into the alley.

  By the time Spur got to the alley door, he could not spot the bushwhacker. The man was about the same size as the figure he had seen dropping off the roof when he had been shot at in the hotel. Who was this guy?

  He watched the alley both ways. There were stacks of pasteboard boxes on each side. The back doors of small businesses lined the sides of the narrow track. Movement showed halfway down the alley to the right. Spur lifted his six-gun ready to fire, but a small boy came from behind a stack of crates with a foot square box and went down the other way.

  From the other direction a door slammed, a man came from a business and walked away from Spur.

  "Just a minute!" Spur called and ran toward the man, who turned and fired, then rushed back into the building.

  When Spur got to the door he saw it was a hardware store. He went through the door into the darkness beyond low in a crouch. When the door opened two shots blasted from inside, but both were over Spur's low bending form. Spur fired one shot at the flashes in the dark, then a door opened and someone darted through it.

  The big Secret Service agent bumped into several things on his way to the door, and by the time he got to it and opened it, he saw he was in another back room, and a man was holding a six-gun to the head of a middle-aged woman.

  The man was medium height with a receding hairline and glistening eyes, a little wild now.

  "Throw down your gun, McCoy, or this woman gets her head blown offl" the man shrieked.

  Spur lifted his six-gun and aimed it at the man who was hidden only partly by the bulk of the woman.

  "No chance. You shoot her and you're both dead, because I can't miss at this range and you can't kill her and me too. Give it up. Why are you trying to kill me? Who the hell are you?"

  The man's expression changed completely. He became cunning and sly, pulled the woman up so that she covered all his body and started to drag her toward the open door leading into the main part of the store.

  "I know you, McCoy. You'll never let this woman die. You're soft in the heart. Make you a deal. You stay inside and let me get out the front door, and I won't kill this old biddy."

  Spur edged closer. He had a good look at the man. This eyebrows over blue eyes, a straight, almost sharp nose, small mouth with a firm chin, and ears that clung closely to his head. He was about fifty to fifty-five. He moved with the fluidity of a dancer. It puzzled Spur.

  "No closer or she dies!" the man said. His voice came like a studied command, sharp, forceful. For a moment it seemed to McCoy that the bushwhacker was playing a part, giving a performance. Then he glanced behind him, and pulled the woman with him, giving Spur almost no chance for a killing shot. If he did get in a lucky head shot at this distance, it would still give the desperado time to kill the woman with a reflexive jerk of his trigger finger.

  "I'll let you go outside," Spur said, moving forward himself whenever the gunman looked away. "When you get outside let her go, and defend yourself."

  "Against you? I'd have no chance."

  "So you'd rather shoot me in the back?"

  "Given the chance, yes."

  Then the man and woman were out the door. Spur sprinted through the kegs of nails, axes and shovels and other hardware items to the front door. The woman lay on the boardwalk, the man ran down the street dodging wagons and horses. Spur charged after him. A sudden runaway horse angled across his path and McCoy was momentarily
slowed. He caught sight of the bushwhacker cutting downhill and heading for one of the mines.

  It was shift change time. Hundreds of miners milled around the entrance to the mine, waiting to get in the cage that would drop them down the shaft to their assigned tunnel and drift for the day's work. The men were all dressed much the same: round, shapeless hats, brown or black workshirts and pants of the same type. He looked sharply but could not see his target who was without hat, but was wearing a white shirt and vest under a blue coat.

  He found the coat abandoned. Just as the second cage in the stack of three dropped down a level so more men could crowd into the cage above, Spur spotted the man looking out from a descending lift. Spur ran through the miners, got to the cage and spoke sharply to the man assigning workers to the various levels.

  "That man with the vest who just got on the cage. What level did he go to?"

  "He's dropping to eight hundred foot. Said he's doing some survey work for the owner. Don't matter to me. I just work for pay."

  "Get me on the same level. The man's a killer. I'm a United States law officer."

  The man nodded, pointed to the cage and promised him the same eight hundred foot level tunnel. Spur jumped on board the metal cage. It was really an open platform with a "V" shield of a roof over it to prevent rock fall on the passengers.

  Each man had to hang on to cables that supported the floor to the bars across the top. Over that hung a metal frame to which was attached a newly developed woven wire flat cable eight inches wide and nearly a half inch thick.

  Ten men crowded on the narrow platform, a bell sounded and the three cages dropped away into the inky blackness of the tunnel at the Consolidated California mine, just down the hill from the International Hotel.

  The braided cable sang a sickening sound as it let the three cages go sliding down into the heart of the Washoe, into the fabulous Comstock Lode, into the guts of Mt. Davidson.

  As they dropped down, and down, and down, Spur thought surely they were blasting straight into hell. The speed of the cages increased, and then seemed to level off as level after level flashed by, faster than the woods outside a train window.