“We’re in the newspaper business.”
This seemed to satisfy Mr. Nason. His wife’s expression didn’t look like she approved, but she hadn’t smiled once since I’d arrived, anyway.
Just then one of the other men at the table spoke up.
“There’s a Gregory over at the saloon, least he was a couple nights back. But he weren’t no newspaper man, I can tell ya. A shyster’s more like it! The guy took me for my whole two days’ worth of dust in an hour of five-card stud.”
“Where was that?” asked one of the other men.
“The Lucky Sluice.”
“The Lucky Deuce, you mean!” said the other. “They play a game of faro there with deuces countin’ triple and always goin’ to the player, if you lay down a double bet ahead of time. So if you hit it wrong, the house gets rich and you lose everything in a hurry. But they keep bringin’ the suckers in! I gave it up after losin’ my whole wad to ’em twice.”
“When was the last time you saw this man?” I asked.
“Couple nights ago, don’t remember exactly. I ain’t been back since.”
“Maybe I’ll go over there and see if he’s back,” I said.
“It gets mighty wild there, Miss,” said Mr. Nason. “You don’t want to be mixing with drinkin’ men, especially if they happen to be losin’ their gold at the same time.”
“Well, if it’s the man I’m looking for, he’s not a miner, so I won’t have to worry about that. And as for the drinking, I reckon I’ll just get my business done and get out before anything rough gets started.”
Nobody said anything else. None of them seemed to think I was too smart to think of walking into a saloon alone. But on the other hand, they didn’t seem to care that much either way. Sonora was the kind of place, I guess, where folks were in the habit of doing whatever they pleased, and where everyone else minded their own business.
After supper I went out to the barn. I was about to saddle up my horse when I remembered Mrs. Nason’s words about the stealing that went on around here. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to tie the horse on the main street of Sonora at night. I decided to walk up to the middle of town instead.
Even while I was still a block away, I heard the laughing and yelling and music coming out of the Lucky Sluice. There weren’t many people out. I’m sure all the respectable people were in their homes—if there were very many of those in this town!—and the rest were already inside the brightly lit saloons.
When I got to the double swinging doors of the Lucky Sluice, I took in a deep breath, breathed a silent prayer, and, trying to hide my shaking knees, pushed through the doors and walked inside.
I was dressed in denim breeches and a man’s flannel shirt, and most of the men were absorbed at the dozen or so card tables, so I didn’t attract too much attention at first. If I had, I probably would have turned back around and run right out! Against the right wall a man was playing lively music on a piano, and a few women in short, bright-colored dresses were lounging about and talking with some of the men.
I walked straight to the bar, ignoring the few heads that turned and watched me. The big burly man behind it walked toward me, still finishing something he was saying to somebody else. When he looked down at me, surprise showed on his face, and I think he might have been about ready to throw me out because of how young I looked. But I didn’t give him the chance.
“I’m looking for a man named Gregory,” I said quickly. “I was told he might be here.”
The bartender stared at me like he might still be thinking of throwing me out. Nobody in this town did much smiling, but they sure stared a lot! Maybe I was funnier looking or more out-of-place looking than I realized.
But finally he turned his head and shouted off toward a table near the piano, “Hey, Hap, that friend o’ yers from Frisco here tonight?”
“Naw . . . who wants t’ know?”
“Little lady here’s askin’ fer him.”
The man named Hap sat up in his chair and looked in our direction. If I’d hoped to be inconspicuous, there was no chance of that now! The rest of the men he was playing cards with glanced up too, and a round of whistles and catcalls followed. But I tried not to pay any attention to them.
“I’m afraid yer luck’s done run out, Miss,” said Hap. “Derrick lit off fer Chinese Camp yesterday. But maybe I can help ya out, Miss,” he added with a smile, and a wink at his friends. “I’m better lookin’ than him by a dang sight!”
“Can you tell me where I might find him?” I asked.
“Try Shanghai Slim’s at Chinese Camp, or else he might be stayin’ at old lady Buford’s place in Jacksonville.”
“Is that a boardinghouse?”
“You can call it what ya want, Miss. Derrick’s called it worse things than that! But if ya mean a place where a body can get a bed an’ a meal, then that’s what it is.”
“Thank you kindly,” I said, nodding toward him and the bartender. Then I turned and walked out as fast as I could!
I went back to Mrs. Nason’s. I’d paid for the night, and it was nearly dark and much too late to think of doing anything else. I’d head south to Jacksonville in the morning. I had no way of knowing if Hap was talking about the same man as I was trying to track down. But the bartender did say Gregory was from San Francisco, and that’s where the Globe was. So I figured I ought to follow the lead and see what came of it.
Chapter 44
Derrick Gregory
Chinese Camp was about ten or twelve miles south of Sonora. I figured I’d ride there first.
There probably wasn’t much chance of finding anybody in the morning, but I could look around, ask, and then I could go on to Jacksonville three or four miles farther on and see about getting a room for the night at that boardinghouse. I didn’t much relish walking into strange hotels and saloons and asking about a man I didn’t know. I still couldn’t figure out why Mr. Kemble had sent me after this Gregory when, like he said, he had other more experienced men. I couldn’t believe it was only that he wouldn’t recognize me. Especially when I didn’t have any idea what I was supposed to be doing, or how I’d find out the information Mr. Kemble needed. But I noticed that every time I walked into a strange or uncomfortable situation, it got easier the next time.
So when I saw the sign above the door advertising “Shanghai Slim’s” as I rode into Chinese Camp, I didn’t feel nearly so queasy in the stomach at the thought of walking inside. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but at least I knew I could do it.
I got off my horse, tied her to the rail outside, and went in.
It was obvious in a minute where the place got its name—both the town and the saloon. Inside, the decorations looked more Chinese than anything I’d seen before in California. And although there weren’t very many people there, more than half of them were Chinese. A man wearing a green apron was sweeping the floor in front of the bar. From his appearance I thought he must be the owner.
“Pardon me,” I said, “are you Mr. Slim?”
He stopped his broom, glanced up at me, and answered in a thick Chinese accent, “You bet. I Shanghai Slim.” The look he gave me seemed about the friendliest I’d seen in a long time, and he almost hinted at a smile. But I couldn’t be sure.
“I’m looking for a man by the name of Gregory,” I said.
The short little man pointed behind me, then without another word returned to his sweeping.
I turned around and saw, among the half dozen empty tables in the room, a group of men involved in a poker game at one of the tables. From the looks on their faces, I wondered if it had gone on all night, or if it was just getting started on a bad note. The only one apparently having a good time was one jovial Chinese man with a pile of money and some little bags of gold sitting in front of him. Several others who had apparently dropped out of the game stood by watching.
Slowly I approached them. No one even saw me. A pile of coins, some paper, and a couple of small nuggets of gold lay in the middle of the table, an
d all six of the men had their fingers curled tightly around their cards. Most of them had creases on their foreheads and were examining their hands intently. Finally a Chinese man broke the silence.
“Not me. I fold,” he said throwing his cards face down in front if him. “I out this hand.”
“I’ll stay,” said the man next to him. “That is, if you’ll all take this nugget as good for the fifteen-dollar call.” He held up a piece of gold between his thumb and first finger that looked to be about a half an inch thick all the way around.
“Okay by me,” said a player across the table, and his words were followed by various nods and mutterings of approval.
The first man tossed the nugget into the middle of the table, where it sounded against the other coins there and rolled to a stop.
“I’m in,” said a third man, laying two paper bills into the pot.
The next man eyed his cards carefully, then sent his thin Oriental eyes squinting one at a time around the table of his companions as if trying to penetrate either their thoughts or see through the backs of their cards. Finally he spoke. “I only once see man draw two cards to inside straight, and his face not look like yours. So I think you bruffing.”
The look of satisfaction I had noticed on this man’s face at first from his obvious winnings had now disappeared.
“I call your fifteen,” he said. “And another fifty.”
He reached into the pile in front of him and first tossed in two coins for the fifteen. Then with great deliberation he dropped five more ten-dollar gold pieces one at a time into the pot.
Sighs and exclamations went around the table. A couple of the men threw their cards down immediately.
To the left of the rich Chinese, a grubby looking miner laid his cards down and leaned back in his chair. “Well at least I’m glad you did that before I called with the fifteen. It’s all yours, Ling. I’m out.”
To his left, however, a well-dressed man, who looked somewhat out of place among both Chinese and dirty unkempt miners, cracked a tiny smile as he glanced again at his cards, then looked over into the eyes of the Chinese man who had just raised the bet to fifty. When he spoke, in spite of a deep serious look in his eyes, there was humor in his tone.
“Now, Ling,” he said, “you asked for two, I took one. You figure me to be going for the inside straight. And I figure since you’re so confident, then you must have three of a kind. My gut tells me you didn’t pick up either the four or the full house, and that you’re still standing with the same three you were dealt.”
He paused, and now smiled broadly at the man called Ling.
“So if you want to see if I did hit on my inside straight, I’m going to make you pay for the privilege.”
Still with his eyes on the other man, his hand went down in front of him and found five coins, which he tossed into the pot. It left him with only five dollars in his own pile.
One by one, all those who had previously called threw in their cards until it came again to Mr. Ling.
He laid his cards down in front of him, face up. “Three kings,” he said.
“Well, Ling,” said the man who had raised, “it appears at last your string of luck has come to an end. For you see, I picked up the straight . . . jack high!”
He laid down the five cards with a triumphant look of satisfaction and let out a great laugh, while various reactions and exclamations went round the table on the part of the others.
While he was scooping up the pot he had just won, I walked timidly the rest of the way to the table. He didn’t see me until I was almost beside him.
“Uh . . . excuse me,” I said shyly, “would you by any chance be Mr. Gregory?”
“That’s me,” he answered, still raking in his money. “Who wants to know?”
At last he glanced up to where I stood, and before giving me a chance to say anything more, let out an exclamation.
“Well, well! It looks like you came just in time to change my luck, honey! Derrick Gregory, at your service!” he said, flashing a grin.
He stood, took off his hat, and gave an exaggerated bow. As he rose from the table I saw that he was taller than I had realized, with curly black hair and eyes of the same color. He appeared to be in his early thirties. The smile revealed his teeth, though his voice and look didn’t appear altogether genuine.
“I would like to talk with you,” I said.
“Oh, I’d be right pleasured t’ speak with ya, Miss,” interrupted one of the other card players, a dirty man with a leering face I didn’t like at all. “Now you jest come right over here t’ me, an’—”
“Snap your big trap shut, Frank, or I’ll stuff my fist into it!” said Mr. Gregory in my defense.
“Tarnation, Greg, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Well, just stay out of it!”
And though Frank didn’t say another word, I still wasn’t sure what to think of Derrick Gregory either.
“Now, girl,” he said, towering in front of me, “who are you, and what are you hankering to tell me?”
“I’m Cornelia Hollister,” I said, “and I understand you’re a newspaper writer.”
The smile faded from his face. He started to lead me toward the other side of the room, saying as he did, “You fellas go on without me. I figure I owe this little lady a few minutes, the way she won that pot for me!”
As we moved away, a few whistles and jeers followed us.
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” he said to me. “And don’t one of you think of touching my pot!” he called out over his shoulder. “I’ll count every penny when I get back!”
He led me out the door and into the bright sunlight.
“You see, none of those men in there—they don’t know exactly that I’m a reporter. They know I’ve been around a while asking some questions, but as long as they can keep winning some of my money at poker, they don’t care too much about what I’m up to. And that’s the way I’d like to keep it. So what is it you heard about me—what’d you say your name was?”
“Cornelia.”
“So what makes you think I’m a writer?”
“I just heard about you, that’s all.”
“And what did you hear?”
“That you’re writing about the election,” I answered.
He sat down on the edge of the wood sidewalk, his long legs stretching out into the dirt street. Then he looked up and scanned me up and down as if taking stock of me for the first time.
“So you’re interested in the election, eh, Cornelia?”
I nodded.
“That all?”
“I’ve always wanted to be a newspaper writer too,” I said.
He smiled again. “A girl wanting to be a writer!” he exclaimed. “And so you figured I could give you a few pointers, eh, is that it?”
I didn’t answer right off, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Cornelia what?” he asked.
“Hollister.”
“Hmm . . . Hollister . . .” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then after a few seconds went on. “Well, Miss Hollister,” he said, “I’m not saying anything one way or another about what I may or may not be. But I figure I owe you one. Ol’ Ling in there’d been beating me all day and all night and had just about cleaned me dry till you walked up. So just maybe this is your lucky day as well as mine.”
He didn’t seem to take me seriously. But on the other hand, he didn’t mind talking to me either, which was all I could have hoped for.
“Where do you come from, Cornelia?”
“I rode down from Sonora.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” he said, getting back to his feet. “I’ve been staying at a place down in Jacksonville, and I got some folks I gotta see down at Big Oak Flat. If you want to ride along with me, I’ll tell you a thing or two about this election, and maybe let you watch me conduct a real live interview in person. You game?”
“Oh yes, thank you very much!” I said enthusiastically. “I would like that.”
After just a few minutes with him, I wasn’t worried about riding off alone with Derrick Gregory. There was nothing about him that frightened me, although I couldn’t help being on my guard. He talked to me as if he were sharing his great experience and wisdom with a little kid, which in this case I didn’t mind.
“Let me go back in there and get my loot and tell those old coots that we’re leaving. And then we’ll hit the trail, Miss Hollister.”
Chapter 45
I Find Out More Than I Ought To
For the rest of the morning we rode south and chatted easily. Mr. Gregory seemed perfectly willing to talk to me about his work, and didn’t appear to mind my questions. Gradually I learned a lot about him and what he was doing. Apparently he thought of me as nothing but a raw novice who knew absolutely nothing.
In a way I guess I was just a raw novice. But I knew more than he thought I knew, and I wasn’t so innocent of motive as he thought. I wondered if I was doing wrong to deceive him. But I hadn’t actually said anything that was untrue, he had drawn his own conclusions. I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone but was just trying to get at the truth, and I thought that what I was doing was justified. If it wasn’t, and if I was doing wrong, I’d have to deal with my conscience when it started to nag at me. It was a hard question, and wouldn’t be the first time as a reporter when I’d wonder about the line between honesty and not saying enough. Maybe it’s a problem a reporter never completely gets a handle on.
One thing was for sure, Derrick Gregory wasn’t in the least concerned about truthfulness in what he wrote. He treated me nice enough. But he didn’t care if he was fair to Mr. Fremont. Before we’d gone very far at all, he’d confided in me that his job was to get whatever he could in order to destroy John Fremont’s reputation.
“But what if you write something that’s not true?” I asked.
“Nobody pays you for truth, Cornelia. They pay you to watch out for their interests.”
I reached into my saddlebag and pulled out a notepad and a pencil. “A real reporter’s supposed to take notes, isn’t she?” I asked innocently. “Do you mind if I write down some of what you say? I want to learn as much as possible.”
On the Trail of the Truth Page 25
