The grocer chuckled. “Boys, you don’t have to be coy with me. I been in this business a long time. I can tell by what you’re buying, what you’re up to. You’ve found a promising strike somewhere and you want to work it alone until it’s developed. Like I say, I hope nobody finds you. ”
“Oh, uh, you’re right. You startled me, I didn’t think it was that obvious,” Bobby Lee said.
“You can’t fool an old man like me,” the grocer said. “I hope you have an authentic strike, but I have to warn you, I spent twenty years poking around up there in the Toquima Range, where I found a lot of places that looked promising, but I never found anything that paid out. That’s why I give it up and come down here to run this store. Started out by just working here, but saved my money and bought it from the man that owned it first.”
“Sounds like a smart thing to do,” Smoke said as he paid for the purchases and began putting them into a cloth bag. “You would be Mr. Groves, would you? ”
“No, sir, my name is Wagner. I kept the name Groves ‘cause that’s the name of the fella who owned the store first, and that’s how folks remember it.” Wagner smiled. “Plus which, I wound up marryin’ Mr. Groves’ daughter and keeping the same name of the store helps keep peace in the family.”
“I notice you have three saloons in town,” Smoke said. “Which one is the most popular?”
“The New York Saloon is the best,” the grocer replied. “And it’s always filled with people.”
“What about the other two? The Lucky Chance and the Lost Mine?” Smoke asked.
“The Lucky Chance isn’t bad,” he said. “But the Lost Mine?” He shook his head. “I ain’t never been in it, but from what I hear, there don’t nobody but the dregs of the county ever go in there. They say it ain’t nowhere near as nice as the New York.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Smoke said, gathering up his sack of groceries. Once outside, he tied the sack to the saddle horn, then untied the horse and swung into the saddle.
“What do you say we get us a beer?”
“Sounds good to me. The New York?” Bobby Lee replied.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“You check out the Last Chance, have a beer, keep your ears open and see what you hear. I’ll do the same thing at the Lost Mine. We’ll meet in the New York in about an hour and compare notes.”
“All right,” Bobby Lee agreed.
The Lost Mine was at the far end of the street from Groves General Store. It was right across the street from the New York Saloon, and whereas the New York Saloon had a fresh coat of paint and a bright new sign, the Lost Mine was weathered and the sign was so dim, it could scarcely be read.
There was no piano in the Lost Mine, and there were only two working women. Dissipation pulled at both of them, and one had a purple flash of scar that started above her left eye, slashed down across her cheek, then hooked back toward her mouth. Upon seeing Smoke step into the saloon, the two women smiled and looked toward him. Smoke acknowledged their smile with a polite nod of his head, but as he approached the bar, he turned his body so that he presented his back to them, by way of letting them know that he had no interest in female companionship.
“What will it be?” the bartender asked. The bartender was wearing an apron that looked, and smelled, as if it hadn’t been washed in months.
“Beer,” Smoke said.
The bartender grabbed a mug from the bar. There was still an inch of beer at the bottom of the mug, and without pouring it out, he held the mug under the spigot of the beer barrel and started to pull the handle.
“A clean glass,” Smoke said.
The bartender shrugged his shoulders and set the mug aside, then took an empty one from under the bar.
“A bit choosy, ain’t you?” the bartender asked as he drew the beer.
“Let’s just say that I want to drink my own beer,” Smoke said, putting a nickel down as the beer was delivered.
“Prospectin', are you?” the bartender asked.
“I might be.”
“All right, I understand,” the bartender said, taking a step back from the bar, then lifting his hands, palm out. “Folks come here, absolutely certain they’re goin’ to get rich, they find ‘em a spot they think nobody else has ever seen, then they want to keep it secret.”
“You mean my spot isn’t secret?” Smoke asked.
The bartender grunted what might have been a laugh. “Ha. More than likely there’s been a dozen prospectors done busted their backs tryin’ to prove out the very spot you’re on now.”
“Yes, well, I’ll just keep it secret if you don’t mind,” Smoke said, responding to the bartender’s reasoning.
The bartender drifted away and Smoke nursed his beer, listening in to a dozen different conversations to see if he could pick up a clue as to where to find Frank Dodd.
Fifteen miles southwest of Lunning, in the small town of Marrietta, Emmett Clark was having his lunch in the Silver Palace Café. Dodd and Conklin were over at the Hog’s Head Saloon. Since joining Dodd, Clark had been involved in four more robberies—two additional stagecoaches, one freight office, and a grocery store. The shotgun guard riding on the second stage had tried to defend the coach against the robbers and Clark had shot and killed him.
In Clark’s mind, his descent into hell was complete. No longer did he try to maintain the fiction of being “drawn onto the outlaw trail by events beyond his control.” He now considered himself to be a man without conscience or honor, and he was not in the least disturbed by that.
Clark had just finished his supper when a newspaper boy came in peddling his papers. Summoning the boy over, Clark bought a paper.
“Gee, thanks, mister,” the boy said when Clark gave him a dime and told him to keep the change.
Drinking a second cup of coffee, Clark began perusing the newspaper.
Queen Victoria, now sixty years old, has worn the crown of England for forty-two years, a longer period than that known to any other living European monarch.
Clark wondered what it would be like to be a monarch for forty-two years. Maybe not as good as it sounded.
The next article also caught his attention.
Mr. Thomas Edison, the inventor, has been exhibiting in New York his improvement of Mr. Alexander Graham Bell’s telephone. Mr. Edison’s instrument is said to be of such power that the receiver need not be placed at the ear in order to catch the sounds. He also says that he has nearly perfected his new electric light. He claims that he has supplied six lights from one horse power, and that the cost of the light is not more than one-third that of gas. Mr. Edison has stated that it will soon be time to let the public realize the benefit of these marvelous inventions.
Clark had never seen a telephone, but he had heard of it. He knew that a telephone was something like a telegraph, only you could actually speak through the wires, though he had no idea how that would work.
He was about to lay the paper aside when he saw an article that began with the headline “Record Money Shipment.” He read the article with a great deal of interest.
Folding the paper over, Clark left his meal half-eaten and hurried over to the saloon. Conklin was sitting alone at a table in the back, eating cracklings and drinking beer.
“Where’s Dodd?” Clark asked.
“He took a whore upstairs,” Conklin said, though as his mouth was full, he mumbled his words.
“What room?”
“How the hell do I know what room? It could be any of ‘em. Far as I know, ever’ room up there is a whore’s room.”
“He needs to see this,” Clark said, holding up the paper.
“What is it?”
“Like I said, it’s something Dodd needs to see.” Clark started toward the stairs.
“I wouldn’t go up there if I was you,” Conklin called out to him. “I’ve known Dodd a long time. He don’t like bein’ bothered none when he is with the whores.”
“He’ll like this,” Clark called back.
Clark went up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Not knowing which room Dodd was in, he began knocking on all of them. “Dodd,” he called, banging on one door after another. “Dodd, get out here!”
“Go away, I’m busy,” a muffled voice called from inside one of the rooms.
“Dodd, open the door,” Clark called again, moving to the room where he heard the voice. “You aren’t going to want to miss this.”
A few seconds later, Dodd, wearing only his trousers, and with a disgruntled expression on his face, jerked open the door. Behind him, sitting up in bed but with the sheet down so that one of her breasts was fully exposed, a saloon doxy waited for him.
“You better have a good reason for this,” Dodd said.
“How about one hundred thousand reasons?” Clark replied, showing him the newspaper.
* * *
Less than one hour after Clark showed the newspaper article to Frank Dodd, Herman Wallace, Harley Beard, and Loomis Jackson rode into Marrietta.
“What makes you think Dodd will be here?” Beard asked.
“He told me he would be,” Wallace said. “He always kept me posted as to where he would be. How else do you think I got the information to him?”
“What’s he goin’ to think now that you don’t have no information to give him?”
“I don’t care what he thinks,” Wallace said. “The son of a bitch owes me money, and we’re going to need money to get out of here.”
“Where do we look first?” Jackson asked.
“Where do you think?” Wallace replied as he turned his horse toward the Hog’s Head Saloon.
Chapter Twenty-four
Having heard nothing of particular interest while spending time in the Lost Mine Saloon, Smoke moved from the Lost Mine to the New York Saloon. The New York Saloon was considerably larger than the Lost Mine, and much more crowded. It took Smoke a few seconds to locate Bobby Lee, who was sitting alone at a table in the middle of the crowded room.
Smoke nodded at him, then walked over to the bar. The bartender was wearing a clean white apron and a clean shirt, the sleeves of which were held up by garters. He had slicked-back coal-black hair, and a waxed handlebar mustache.
“Beer,” Smoke ordered, and he smiled as he saw the bartender, very meticulously, select a new, clean mug, then hold it under the spigot. The bartender was careful to build a head, but not spill any of the beer. The difference between the New York and the Lost Mine could not be more strikingly manifested than in observing the procedures of the two bartenders.
With his beer in hand, Smoke crossed over to join Bobby Lee at his table.
“Anything?” Smoke asked.
“Nothing. How about you?”
“I didn’t hear anything usable either,” Smoke said, just before he took a swallow of his beer.
There were three men at the nearest table, and something one of them said caught Smoke’s attention.
“I can’t believe they would put in the paper about carryin’ all that money on the train. Don’t they know that’s just askin’ to have someone rob it?”
The speaker holding forth was a big, bearded man. The two men with whom he was sharing the table were also bearded and nearly indistinguishable from each other except for a large mole on the face of one, and a three-corner scar on the face of the other. The speaker’s face, though rough hewn, was unmarked.
“I know people who have been workin’ the mines for near fifteen years, good productive mines they were too, and they haven’t taken out as much money as is goin’ to be on that train. All a fella would have to do is rob that train and he’d have enough money to spend for the rest of his life.”
“You want to rob a train, Cooley?” one of the others asked, and all three laughed.
“Hell, no, I ain’t no train robber,” Cooley said. “I’m just sayin', it don’t make no sense to me for the newspaper to put in a story about shippin’ one hundred thousand dollars. Just ‘cause I ain’t no train robber don’t mean there ain’t folks who won’t do it.”
“That’s true. But I’m sure they’ll have it guarded. I figure anyone who plans on robbin’ that train is goin’ to have to be awful smart, or awful dumb.”
“Yeah? Well, I know a feller that sure fits that description,” Cooley said. “If he finds out about this train carryin’ all that money, why, he’ll rob it in a heartbeat.”
“You’re talkin’ about Frank Dodd, aren’t you?”
“Maybe I am, and maybe I ain’t,” Cooley said. “To my way of thinkin', it ain’t none too smart to be throwin’ that fella’s name around.”
“No, I ain’t goin’ to be throwin’ it around neither.”
“Tell me, Owen, what would you do if you had that much money?” Cooley asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe buy some new equipment for my diggings,” Owen said.
Cooley laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Hell, if you had that much money, why would you spend any more time trying to scratch a living out of a mine that ain’t hardly payin’ noth-in’ at all?”
“Yeah,” Owen said. “Yeah, you’re right. I’d probably go back East somewhere, maybe get me a haircut and a beard trim, some new clothes, and then eat me a lobster.”
“A lobster?”
“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to eat me a lobster.”
The other two men at the table laughed.
* * *
“Did you hear that?” Smoke asked Bobby Lee. Smoke’s question was asked quietly, so that only Bobby Lee heard.
“Yes, I heard it. Something about a train carrying one hundred thousand dollars.”
“We need to have a look at that newspaper,” Smoke suggested.
“I saw someone bring a pile of them in a while ago. He left them on the end of the bar. I’ll go get us one,” Bobby Lee said.
Bobby Lee walked up to the bar, picked up a paper, and dropped two pennies into ajar that was sitting beside the papers. Taking the paper back to the table, he and Smoke began looking through it.
“Here it is,” Smoke said. “It’s reprinted from the Carson City Gazette. The money is being shipped from Carson City to Columbus. How far is that?”
“It’s just under a hundred and fifty miles,” Bobby Lee said.
“Do you know the route?”
“Not really, but back in our Reno office, we have a map of every railroad in Nevada. I just remember seeing it.”
Bobby Lee looked back at the paper, then noticed another article of interest.
“Smoke, look at this!” he said excitedly. “Here is a reprint of an article from the Cloverdale News Leaf! I think I’ve been cleared! ”
Smoke read Cutler’s article, then nodded.
“I think you have too,” he said. “So, what do you want to do now? Do you want to go back to Cloverdale?”
Bobby Lee drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then shook his head.
“No, not yet,” he said. “This maybe the best opportunity we will ever have to get Dodd. I started out to get him and I intend to do just that.”
“What was that date again?” Smoke asked, checking the article.
“The third of September,” Bobby Lee replied. “Wait a minute. That’s—tonight,” he said, just realizing it.
“Yes,” Smoke said. “What do you say we walk over to the depot and get a map and a schedule?”
“Good idea,” Bobby Lee said.
Five minutes later, the two men were at the Lunning depot, perusing the train schedule and studying the railroad map.
“You know how Dodd works,” Smoke said. “Do you have any ideas how he’ll plan to do it?”
“From the look of this map, I would say he will try it at Hawthorne,” Bobby said.
“Hawthorne?”
“Yes, look here,” Bobby Lee said, pointing to the map. “It is forty-five miles from Cleaver to Hawthorne, with no water tanks in between. Forty-five miles is just about the limit an engine can go without refilling its tank
, so the train is going to be awfully thirsty when it gets there. And because it will come through at eleven p.m., most of the town will be asleep. Dodd will wait until the train stops, then he’ll hit it.”
Smoke nodded. “That sounds reasonable,” he said. “How far is Hawthorne from here?”
“Twenty-five miles according to the map.”
“If we want to be there by eleven, we had best be going.”
* * *
The Mountain View Special consisted of the Baldwin engine, a four-four-two named the Eric McKenzie, a wood tender, an express car, a baggage car, two sleeper cars, and two day cars. With a full head of steam, it hurtled south through the night on the Virginia and Truckee Railroad as sparks flew from the smokestack and glowing cinders fell between the tracks. By sight and sound, the behemoth made its presence known to man and animals alike.
“You’ve got a good fire stoked there, R.A.,” the engineer said to his fireman, having to shout to be heard over the hiss of active steam, the clatter of steel pistons, wheels, and couplings, and the gush of wind. “We’re making near thirty miles to the hour! ”
“I’ll keep the pressure up as high as you want it, Clyde,” R.A. said as he threw in more chunks of wood. “There’s not an engine on the line that can top the McKenzie.”
In the express car behind the tender, Eddie Murtaugh and two other agents of the Western Exchange Security Agency sat on the floor against the wall of the car. The door was open slightly. Murtaugh stood up, then stepped over to the open door to look outside.
“Whoowee, those boys up front have us going lickety-split,” he said.
“I wonder how fast we are going,” one of the other agents said.
“I don’t know, but it’s fast.”
“Mr. Murtaugh?” the railroad express man said.
Murtaugh turned toward the express man.
“You wanted to know when we came to Hawthorne? According to my watch, we will be there in about five minutes.”
Shootout of the Mountain Man Page 23
