“He’d like that.”
We drank our coffee, and watched the traffic wheel by for a few minutes. Carson City was the capital of Nevada and close to Virginia City’s Comstock Lode. The traffic in front of our hotel was dominated by politicians and silver barons—and the crafty who had grown wealthy supplying the needs of the other two. The exclusive St. Charles Hotel was only a few blocks away from the sandstone capitol and the traffic this spring morning—whether on foot, hoof, or wheels—strutted like each and every one of them was the cock of the walk.
“The book’s done.” I shook my head at the parade in front of me. “I want to get out of here.”
“I’m ready to git too. Been thinkin’ ‘bout returnin’ to Leadville.”
“Mrs. Baker’s doing a fine job. I was thinking south.”
“I like to check on my investments.”
I laughed at Sharp’s lame excuse. “Hell, that store’s a small operation for you. You want to entice Mrs. Baker into your bed.”
“Hadn’t entered my mind, but I’ll convey yer suggestion to her.”
“Jeff, it’s cold in Leadville. The town won’t thaw for months. Let’s go to Arizona. It’s warm and there’s plenty of silver.”
“Ain’t America.”
“Hell, we own it.”
“Things are different below the border. Territorial law can’t be trusted.”
“That’s why I want to go to Prescott. John C. Frémont’s the territorial governor. I can get him to grease wheels for us.”
“Ya know him?”
I laughed. “Not really, but I’ve sat on his knee.”
“Hope that weren’t recent.”
“Twenty five years ago. I was six. Still too old to be bounced on someone’s knee, but the ol’ Pathfinder insisted.”
“Ya think he’ll remember yer bony derrière.”
“He’ll remember how my family helped his bid for the presidency. The Republican Party was new, and he needed New York money and publicity. Horace Greely provided gallons of ink, and my family showed him the money.”
“I met Greely in Colorado,” Sharp said. “Hated the little rooster. He said, go west, young man, but he wanted ‘em to build some sort of Garden of Eden out of this wilderness. Don’t ‘pect that’s what Frémont’s doin’ in Arizona.”
“Doubt it. Frémont was down to someone else’s last dollar, when he begged President Grant for a position. Grant knew he was a pain in the ass, so he gave Frémont a useless job as far away from the capital as he could send him.”
“That man failed at everything. What makes you think he can help us?”
“Jeff, that’s too harsh. He was a great explorer.”
“Then maybe he belongs in a desert wilderness.” Sharp waved at a passerby he recognized. “I say we head for Leadville. Lots of money to be made in that town. Rail line’s finished, by the way, so no need to ride our horses.”
“There’s more opportunity in Arizona, and a man can move between buildings without taking fifteen minutes to bundle.”
“Steve, I already set my mind on Leadville. I’m leaving in a couple of days and I came to Carson City to fetch you. Spring’s the best time to find good claims.” He turned his head to catch my eye. “Ya with me?”
I sipped the last remnants of my coffee to stall answering. We had been in Leadville together last autumn. I had grown up in New York City, and lived there until a little over a year ago, when I had sold my investments, including my gun shop, and ventured west to see and experience the frontier. I wanted to see more of the West, not revisit places I had already been. Sharp was the biggest private mine operator in Nevada, and it appeared he wanted to extend his silver holdings to Colorado. I was tired of Carson City, and wanted to venture away from Nevada. Damn. I preferred going in another direction, but I couldn’t imagine ridding off into the wilderness without my friend.
I sighed and set my empty coffee mug down. “Will you go to Arizona with me after you explore investment opportunities?”
“Yep.”
“Then I’ll go with you, but I’m taking Liberty.”
“I’ll take my horse, as well. Hell, a lot cheaper than buying an animal in Leadville.” Something must have shown on my face, because he added, “Hell that buggy lets me carry a more comfortable bedroll and food that don’t chip my teeth. Must be getting’ old, ‘cuse I’m sure gettin’ to like them comforts. But don’t get uppity, I still ride a horse mainly.”
To disguise his embarrassment, Sharp picked up our coffee mugs to go inside for refills. He stopped at the door. “Steve, ya might as well know … I’m sellin’ all of my silver interests in Nevada. That’s why I’m goin’ to Leadville. New start.”
“Claims drying up?”
“Best to sell while they’re still producin’. I don’t like what’s happen’ here. Lot of it yer fault.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“That whippersnapper you put in charge of the bank in Pickhandle has turned more coldblooded than Washburn, and those dunderheads at the statehouse won’t support free silver—and Richard’s the worst of ‘em.”
Sharp disappeared into the hotel, apparently to give me time to ponder my sins.
The U. S. government had demonetarized silver in 1873, and the Free Silver Movement wanted silver coinage reinstated. It would make silver men richer, but cause inflation that would erode my paper investments. Richard was my friend; one I had been proud to help elect to the state senate. I had no regrets on that score. The whippersnapper Sharp referred to was another matter altogether. Peter had been a skittish law clerk when I had met him. I set him up as an assistant manager at a bank I had once owned in Pickhandle Gulch, Nevada. When I sold the bank to First Commerce, he became the manager, and—away from the prying eyes of the parent bank—had built his deposits and profits by using dubious means.
Something caught my attention in the street traffic. It was Richard hurrying directly toward me. What did he want?
He clambered up the porch steps and plopped into the seat Sharp had been using. Without preamble, he blurted, “Steve, we need your help.”
“Who’s we, senator.” I had no inclination to get involved in state politics.
“The Whist Club.”
“I’m listening.” These were people I cared about.
“Peter has taken over our hotel and Jeremiah’s store.”
“How?”
Jeremiah was another friend from my days in Pickhandle Gulch. When I left the mining encampment, I owned the sole hotel in town. In a gesture of friendship, I had deeded one quarter of the hotel to each of the members of our nightly whist club, which included a quarter share for me. The other partners were Richard, Jeremiah, and Doctor Dooley, who now resided in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Since Jeremiah was the only one left in Pickhandle, he ran the hotel for us, along with his general store.
“Peter controls the county, and he boosted the taxes on both properties … seven thousand a year for the hotel alone.”
“That’s outrageous.”
“No, it’s thievery.”
“The town owns the hotel?”
“The county … and Peter is the county. You created this monster.”
I had been in a hurry, and had casually selected Peter to run my small bank. At the time, my main concern had been that he wasn’t tough enough for a lawless outpost. I certainly never expected him to be a petty tyrant. I was wealthy, with most of my investments in Wall Street. I never took my small stake in this hotel seriously, except as a way of thanking my friends for helping me out of a tough situation.
“I’ll talk to Commerce Bank,” I said.
“No! You gotta go down there. I’ve already talked to Commerce. They said this is local politics and has nothing to do with them. They refuse to intervene.”
“I can’t go to Pickhandle. I promised Jeff to go with him to Leadville.”
“That’s right.” Sharp had returned with a mug of coffee in each hand. “Nothin’ Steve can do anyway
.”
“You know about this?” I asked Sharp.
“Yup. Reason I’m selling. This state’s too corrupt. Knock down one crook, and another just pops up like those little creatures at a carnival shooting gallery.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded.
Sharp smiled and waved his arm to encompass the street. “Didn’t want to spoil this gorgeous mornin’. Life’s what it is, down south. Nothin’ gonna change for decades.”
“You can change it, Steve,” Richard insisted. “You can put Peter in his place.”
Something occurred to me. “Is the sheriff part of this?”
“Clive? Of course. Peter couldn’t handle this by himself? But Clive’s been pushed aside. Now he’s town marshal. There’s a new sheriff, and I hear he makes Clive look like a schoolmarm.”
I had been sympathetic up to this point, but now I had to bring this conversation to a halt. I was not going to get into another gun battle. “Richard, I’m leaving for Colorado. Soon.”
“It’s your property they stole … and they beat the hell out of Jeremiah.”
“What? How bad’s he hurt?
“Not sure, but I heard he lost sight in one eye. Might be dead. Can’t get a telegram out of that hellhole since the incident.”
I gave Jeff an angry stare. “Didn’t want to spoil a gorgeous morning, huh?”
Jeff shrugged. “Nothin’ to be done ‘bout it now.”
I stood. “We’ll see. I’m going to Pickhandle.”
I would like to express my appreciation to Jim and Marylu Allen, Richard Bigus, Mac and Sandy Castle, Barbara Cunningham, and all the wonderful people at Wheatmark. You have all made this a better book. Thank you.
Discover other titles by James D. Best at
http://www.jamesdbest.com/
Leadville Page 24
