Stringer in Tombstone

by Lou Cameron

  Stringer protested, “Don’t get your bowels in an uproar, Wes. I’m not suggesting we look for mysterious silk threads or even a secret code written with a special ink only one suspect might have hidden behind a secret panel.”

  But Rhodes insisted, “Yes you are. You keep stringing separate events on one string, as if they all made one pearly necklace. An old man who might have been drunk or dotty sent a meaningless message that was never intended for you in the first place. Then, before you even knew he’d sent it, he got hit by a hunting round as he was wandering about in the hills. It could just as easily been a stray round, fired at a critter a mile or more away. No hunter’s about to report firing at a deer or bighorn and missing it, is he?”

  Stringer said, “That works, to a point. But if that was all there was to it, how come I had so much trouble getting to Steinmuller’s ‘dobe in one piece?”

  “The troubles and woes you’ve been having just don’t string up with old Dutchy’s death,” Rhodes said triumphantly, going on to point out, “Let’s say your loco notions about the old dead cuss are right. Let’s say somebody knew what on earth Dutchy was all hot and bothered about. Let’s say they murdered him most foul to shut him up. Then let’s say they either found nothing to incriminate them in Dutchy’s ‘dobe, or, better yet, the old man never had the chance to destroy the evidence and so his killers toted it off with them instead. Then let’s both agree all these mighty mysterious events transpired well before you ever started out from Frisco. What motive’s left?”

  Stringer growled, “Dammit, Wes, if I knew who seemed so anxious to stop me—”

  “From doing what?” Rhodes cut in, asking, “From talking to old Dutchy Steinmuller? After he was dead? To keep you from exploring his ‘dobe? Why? You did, in the end, and didn’t find clue one to pin on anybody! Real life ain’t no Sherlock Holmes story, old son. There’s a heap of tough and half-cracked folk in this part of the real world. You mixed in a fight in Tucson that you had no damned business mixing in. So it was likely a pal of the late Jesus Garcia that tried to blow you up in bed that time, see?”

  Stringer asked, “What about the time Knuckles Ashton tried to kill me in that barber chair?”

  “There you go, trying to string all the pearls on the same string again. I’ve talked to Skagway Sam about that. He says you made Knuckles crawfish, twice, afore he come after you that last time to redeem his rep. Skagway Sam figures his hired-and-fired gun started up with you to begin with because he was the kind of rawhiding asshole Skagway Sam has no use for. I suspect that tinhorn cheats at cards and I know his gal friend is a whore. But I see no reason to doubt his word when he says he figures he owes you a drink more than even one bullet, seeing you saved him a slug in the back that time.”

  Stringer thought about that as he drained the last of his tame drink, surprised at how soon such fleeting pleasures ended on a really hot afternoon. He decided not to have another as he put the glass back down and said, “You may be right. When they send you to a tough town it’s only natural that you might run into tough situations. So, since we both seem to agree I’m just wasting time here, can I go home now, Wes?”

  “Old Dutchy ain’t in his grave yet,” Rhodes answered, shaking his head. “He’s barely to Bisbee and a zinc table at the county coroner’s. Meanwhile, Knuckles Ashton is out there some fool place with his hide full of holes you punched in the same. I know you ain’t guilty of anything serious, Stringer. But until the county says they don’t want to discuss such disgusting recent events with you, you’d best stick around.”

  Stringer swore softly. “Well,” he said, “the opera house is closed and Faro Fran objects to my tobacco. Mayhaps I’ll just go see if they’ve got any interesting books at the library.”

  Wes Rhodes finished his drink and signaled the barkeep for another as he told Stringer, “You’ll likely find it closed. I just said you was the least of my worries. The whole infernal town’s gone up the slope to watch the scientifìcal proceedings at the Lucky Cuss. It do sound interesting. But me and my boys have to keep an eye on Allen Street. With even the whores way up the damn mountain, this would be a swell time to rob the bank or crack any number of safes.”

  Stringer moved closer to the bat wings and stared out soberly at the dead deserted street. He half turned to say, “I thought it was just the heat. But the shadows do seem to be lengthening out there, now. You say everyone’s gone up to that abandoned mine?”

  Rhodes explained, “It ain’t abandoned no more. Some city slickers from L.A. mean to look for more ore down the shaft, if they can ever get it pumped out. That’s what they’re trying to do right now. Naturally, even the whores are interested. It would be like Tombstone in the old days if it turned out the original mine owners made a mistake.” He took a sip from his fresh drink and added, “I frankly think them new boys are full of shit. But, either way, that thumping wonder up the slope is bound to draw trouble like flies when word gets out there even might be a new silver rush here.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Stringer asked directions as the stablehands saddled up old Blue Ribbon for him. But as he rode out he saw he hadn’t really needed directions to the thumping wonder and the big crowd it had attracted. He could hear the mighty engine long before he rode into view of the bare slopes of the Dragoon apron and, sure enough, a frothy mixture of mud and evil-smelling water was trying to dig the ditch beside the steep dirt road even deeper as it tore down the slope to wherever water tended to wind up in an otherwise mighty dry land. Stringer was no hydraulic engineer, but he’d covered enough fires to see they were pumping water at a better rate than most fire engines back in Frisco could have managed.

  The distance wasn’t far. Despite the warmth the low rays of the sun now beat him with, Stringer was almost sorry he’d decided to ride instead of walk. He’d discovered Blue Ribbon was only halfway trained to respect grounded reins and there wasn’t even a solid stump to tether her to as he rode on up to the edge of the crowd and dismounted. As he did so, a pretty gal he’d never seen before in his life grinned at him and asked if he didn’t think all this was wonderful. He agreed, to be polite, but in truth all he could see from down here was the backs of heads and a mess of ladies’ parasols. He grounded the reins, put a fair-sized stone atop the leather touching dirt, and told Blue Ribbon to behave her fool self.

  Then he started to elbow his way farther up the slope, through the whole damned population of Tombstone, it felt like. He worked his way to where a big black hose on the ground was gushing into the ditch. The mine water was coming out cleaner, there, but if anything, more stinky. It reeked of brine and sulfur. He felt sorry for any frogs or pup fish living farther along the wash running into the San Pedro, sooner or later. But Apache and other wild critters had to learn to get along with the white man’s manifest destiny if they meant to survive at all.

  He found it easier walking atop the big hose along the ditch. As he worked closer to the flat-bottomed bowl cut into the hill around the adit, he finally got his first look at the thumping wonder. The big red engine was mounted on railroad cross ties to dampen its vibrations. It still shook the ground under everyone’s feet. Beyond it, yet another big black hose ran into the dark mysterious adit and obviously down the shaft. Some busybody gents in mechanics’ overalls tended the big engine or pushed kids back from it, depending on which was causing the most bother at the moment. Over by the adit, in a space kept clear by hard-eyed company police with baseball bats, Stringer spied Lawyer Lumford and some other important-looking gents staring into the soggy darkness as if they expected to see a dragon, or perhaps a princess escaping from one, any minute. Stringer stayed put and got out his makings as he studied the scene for himself. He saw the first owners had salvaged much of the original steam-powered machinery that should have been up here, along with the tracks that would have run down the slope where there was now but a mess of muddy streaks. Some of the old frame and sheet-iron machine sheds had been left standing, or almost standing. He saw wha
t appeared to be the stack of a paddle-wheel steamer rising above one rusty rooftop and, seeing the crowd was thinner that way, finished rolling his smoke, lit it, and ambled over there. Then a mean-looking cuss with a bat in his hands, a mail-order badge on his vest, and a Colt .45 on one hip stepped in front of him and asked, “Where do you think you’re going, you silly bastard?”

  Stringer smiled thinly back at the hired tough. “I don’t mean to go anywhere on company property that’s not allowed. So you win that chip. Now you’re going to take back that part about me being a bastard or I mean to shove that bat down your throat and bust it off in you.”

  The hired tough went red-faced and pale-lipped as he considered Stringer’s words. Then, seeing Stringer was armed, he tossed his bat aside, saying, “You sure talk mean for such a skinny cuss. But I feel certain you’d like to turn around and start walking the other way, if you know what’s good for you!”

  Stringer shook his head. “I’m waiting for at least a word of apology. A grudging one will do. I didn’t come up here to find out what was good for me. I understand you have a job to do and I’ll be glad to back off if you’d like to rephrase your request that I do so more politely.”

  Another, even bigger company man had noticed the tension in the air and drifted over, bat at port arms, to ask quietly if his pard, Rocky, needed any help. Rocky grinned wolfishly at Stringer as he replied, “I don’t know. This cowboy says he ain’t looking for trouble, but he keeps standing his ground as if he’s confused about who’s in charge here.”

  The second one nodded at Stringer. “We’re in charge, cowboy. Get back across the ditch with the rest of the rubberneckers, while you can still walk.”

  Stringer had to think about that. There was less shame in backing down once the odds against one got this serious. But just then Lawyer Lumford came puffing over, demanding, “What’s going on here?” Then he recognized Stringer and told his thugs, “It’s all right, boys. I’ll deal with it.”

  The two bullies looked disappointed but they must have known who was paying them. They moved off, exchanging confused comments, as Lumford held out a chubby hand to Stringer and said, “It’s my fault. I gave orders to keep the crowd back from the machinery and I guess I forgot to say newspapermen were the exception. What would you like to see first, Mr. MacKail?”

  Stringer made a mental note that, like most small-town politicos, the fat lawyer was good at recalling names. He shook hands with Lumford and explained, “I’d just like to wander around on my own, if it’s all the same to you. I don’t have any sensible questions to ask, yet.”

  Lumford said, “Look about all you like. We’ve not a thing to hide up here. What we find down at the face, once we get the shaft pumped out, may be privileged information to be shared only with our stockholders, of course.”

  Stringer said he understood and that it sounded only fair. Then he asked, “How long do you figure it’s going to take you and your thumping wonder to drain the mine?”

  Lumford shot a fond glance at the big engine across the way and asked, with a chuckle, “Is that what they’ve decided to call our big four-banger? It’s catchy, next to its fancy French name. I can’t answer your question as to the time involved. It depends on how much there is to pump.”

  Stringer raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know?” he asked.

  Lumford shook his head. “Only roughly. When we bought the quitclaim from the last owners, they told us they simply had no engineering charts to offer us. They could give us a rough layout of the main shaft and cross drifts, of course, but without exact dimensions of a water-filled chamber we could be talking a lot of gallons, one way or the other. At the rate the water we can see down the shaft seems to be receding, however, our own engineers tell us we ought to pump it dry within twenty-four to seventy-two hours.”

  Stringer shot a sharp glance across to the big crowd of local onlookers, but didn’t ask the obvious dumb question. He’d covered enough mildly interesting events to know that lots of folk seemed ready to just stand there, staring, by the hour, just in case they might get to see something.

  Lumford excused himself and headed back to the crowd of bigshots closer to the adit, lest he forget someone’s name, most likely. It still wasn’t clear to Stringer whether Lumford was just a local lawyer, retained by the silver speculators to smooth over local matters for them, or whether he was really as important as he acted.

  Stringer was closer to that mysterious smoke funnel than the adit, so he drifted that way, first. The sheet-metal door of the machine shed was ajar on its rusty hinges. He creaked it open to stare into the dark interior, which seemed darker than it really was because of the late-afternoon glare outside. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom Stringer saw the shed was just about filled with the remains of a big Corlis steam pump. It was still in fair shape, thanks to the dry climate. But some belting and of course the gauges and brass valves were missing. He could see why the former owners had abandoned such a whopping mass of iron. In its day, the Corlis had been a thumping wonder of the 1870s. This one, repaired, could no doubt still keep a mine reasonably dry. But despite its size and the fuel it would take to keep it pumping around the clock, no steam engine could lick its weight in internal combustion wang-bangers, no matter what the Stanley brothers said. The railroads and stationary electric plants only clung to steam power because coal was cheaper, where one could get it. Aboard a horseless carriage or out here in the middle of nowhere, gasoline power made more sense.

  That no doubt accounted for the locked shed built into the hillside beyond the abandoned steam pump. The sign on the door said DANGER HIGH EXPLOSIVES! But it was probably left over from the original mine owners. Those red barrels he’d seen on the wagon back in town had to be stored somewhere up here, even when a curious crowd hadn’t gathered to gape and smoke.

  Stringer ambled over to the adit. He got a few curious or even annoyed looks from the bigshots assembled there. But the plump Lawyer Lumford said something and nobody yelled at Stringer as he strode to the overhang and peered down the slope into the fetid darkness.

  The tramway tracks had been hauled out by the roots to run ore cars somewhere more profitable. The big black intake hose from the thumping wonder ran down the muddy and oil-slicked incline to the greasy surface of the present water level, an impressive ten or twelve yards below the easily read original watermark. Lawyer Lumford and an older gent wearing a peaked cap and a grizzled red beard joined Stringer there. Lumford introduced the older gent as Murdoch Fraser, their consulting engineer. Stringer was too considerate to comment on the fact that Annie had said her uncle had worked in another mine when such skills had been called for in these parts. He had a few harmless secrets he didn’t want to discuss with Uncle Murdoch. The old Scot didn’t react to Stringer’s surname as an Irishman or Italian might have reacted to the name of a fellow countryman. Stringer was used to that. Scots did not automatically greet each other as long-lost brothers in a strange land. They had to think about each other’s clans for a while. The history of the Old Country was long, dark, and bloody. It would never do to smile at a man whose great-great-grandfather might have stolen a cow or a wife from one’s own ancestors. So the two of them shook, but with a coolness that seemed to confuse the Anglo-Saxon Lumford.

  He asked Stringer’s opinion of the present waterline. Stringer allowed it was impressive but asked, “How come there’s all that grease? It smells like coal oil.”

  Lumford said, “It probably is. Any lamps left behind when they abandoned the mine would have had some oil in them. Oil floats. The intake is naturally well below that scummy surface, so as we pump the cleaner water out the scum just stays there.”

  Stringer pointed at the glistening rock and timber props below the original waterline and observed, “No it doesn’t. At the rate you’re going you’re fixing to grease everything up disgusting. If I was running things here, I’d have skimmed all that crud off to begin with and hoped to wind up with a shaft that might dry out clean. Waterlogg
ed rock and timbers tend to stay that way if they’re coated with even a thin film of oil.”

  Murdoch Fraser growled, “Do they, noo? And where might ye have taken a degree as a mining engineer, MacKail?”

  Lawyer Lumford seemed an instinctive peacemaker. Before Stringer could respond with answering rudeness, Lumford soothed, “Mister MacKail covered the Alaska gold rush as a newspaper writer, Murdoch. I feel sure he must know something about mining.”

  “So do I,” the old Scot avowed. “Do ye want us to stop and spend a full day skimming yon duck pond so it’s fit to swim in or do ye want the damned auld mine pumped oot?”

  Lumford shook his jowly head vigorously. “We want to show our stockholders some results before they have to leave. Just carry on and we can always tidy up once we know we have a silver mine and not just a hole in the ground.”

  With that, he strode away to get out of their line of fire. Stringer gave the older Scot a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry if I was out of line. I take it you just signed on to pump the shaft out, not to run things once it’s dry?”

  Old Fraser pursed his lips. “Ay, they offered me the position of production manager, if and when they need one. But I said I’d take day wages and see that nobody was killed before the daft loons could see for themselves that the Lucky Cuss has seen its day as anything but a mushroom farm. Might MacKail be a sept of a Jacobite clan?”

  “It would,” Stringer answered, gravely. “We faced the Redcoats at Culloden under the green banner of Lochiel, for all the good it did the cause. Wasn’t the high chief of the Frasers drawn and quartered, afterwards?”