The Shopkeeper

by James D. Best

  “I know your middling bank deposits don’t reflect your sales, and you bar and lock that icehouse like it was filled with gold instead of frozen water. It didn’t take much to figure out where you hide your money.”

  “Damn.” Jeremiah stood and started pacing. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  Because of the merchandise stacked everywhere, Jeremiah could only go about two and a half paces in one direction, and then he had to reverse. He reminded me of one of those Swiss clocks with the little wooden characters that every hour just go back and forth lickety-split.

  After about three of these aborted laps, Jeremiah muttered, “What am I gonna do?”

  “Jeremiah, I won’t steal your money. In fact, if you deposit it with the bank, I’ll help you protect it. Pay you interest too.”

  “Ya don’t understand.” He gave me a forlorn look. “Washburn already owns half this store. Six months ago, he insisted I sell him half for a piddling price, or there would be a fire and I’d lose it all. The Cutlers presented the offer and flipped a lit cigarette into my dry goods to make sure I got the point. What ya warned me might happen in the future has already happened.”

  “Let me guess … you skimmed the money in the icehouse.”

  He plopped back into his chair, and his slumping body answered my question.

  I let him brood a minute and then said, “Watch my bank for me?”

  “No. I won’t get Washburn heated at me.”

  I spoke very quietly. “Jeremiah, we’ve both committed supposed capital offenses against Washburn. He knows mine. He’ll find out about yours.” I let him ponder that a moment. “Rejoin our whist group. Working together we can thwart Washburn and save ourselves. Separate, we’ll each die, either a little bit each day, or all at once.”

  “Washburn may not find out. You only figured it because ya know my bank deposits.”

  I just let him think that one through. He dropped his head into both hands. When he looked up, he said, “Ya think Crown already told him.”

  “Of course. Washburn knows, and as soon as he takes care of other business, he’ll come see you for his rightful cut … and his pound of flesh.”

  “I’m doomed.” He dropped his head back into his hands and started weeping. I waited. Finally, he looked up with bloodshot eyes. “Tell me what ya want.”

  “Get Jemmy to watch the store, and we’ll go across the street. You’ve got a good head for figures, so it won’t take long to teach you the books.”

  “I’m scared.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Tell you what, I’ll leave two Pinkertons. No one will mess with you while they’re in town.”

  His face brightened. “Thank you.” And then clouded, “But what if the sheriff returns?”

  “Give him whatever bribe you normally pay.” I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket. “If he wants four thousand dollars, give it to him—after he signs this document.”

  Chapter 19

  Jeff Sharp lived in Belleville, a mining encampment less than twenty miles from Pickhandle Gulch. When we approached, his place surprised me. I should have known better. The man was rich, but his unassuming ways and scruffy dress had led me to expect modest quarters. Instead, as we rounded a craggy ridge, I spotted a great Georgian house built atop a stepstool-like rise at the base of some imposing hills. An expansive porch supported by white columns framed the red-brick structure. The clean lines and symmetry looked out of place in contrast with the surrounding haphazard, raw-lumber outbuildings.

  As we rode closer, I became impressed with the size of the operation. The menagerie of outbuildings included a stamp mill, bunkhouses, stables, various smith shops, tool sheds, and what appeared to be a huge cookhouse. I realized that Sharp must keep most of his money in Carson City, because his deposits and loans at my bank did not reflect this size of enterprise. It suddenly struck me that Washburn must do the same. He might have tapped my little bank for money, but he would do his big dealings with big banks.

  As we drew closer, I noticed something else: armed guards scattered behind strategic outcroppings. The natural terrain sheltered the cluster of buildings almost as well as a man-made fortress. They evidently expected us, because each layer of guards waved us past. Now we rode as a group, but until a few miles back, two of the Pinkertons had ridden ahead and to the side of our party to investigate likely ambush sites.

  My Pinkerton clothes fit reasonably well, but I found the smell of stale sweat off-putting. More bothersome, Captain McAllen had insisted that we exchange horses. I had ridden Chestnut from Denver, and I missed my horse more than my clothes. At least the captain had allowed me my own saddle, which he said looked nondescript from a distance.

  An unkempt, bearded man carrying a shotgun met us on the porch of the main house. “Mr. Sharp said you should wait in the parlor. He’ll be with you in short order.”

  Captain McAllen gave his men a perfunctory signal, and they rode over to the bunkhouse. Evidently, they would not have guest privileges in the main house.

  At the porch steps, someone had pounded into the dirt a neatly lettered wooden placard that read, “Remove Spurs & Clean Boots.” Without discussion, we dismounted, removed our spurs, hung them on the saddle horns, and made a show of scraping our already-clean boots. A hired hand immediately gathered up our reins and led the horses toward the stables.

  After I had trudged up the three steps to the porch, I turned to check our approach from the perspective of the house. A picturesque valley fell away from the compound to present a spectacular view. The second thing that struck me was that no one could approach unseen.

  Then I noticed an odd smell: the nasal-burning odor of a smelting furnace mixed with the appealing aroma of roasting beef. I walked to the end of the porch and spotted a cow rotating on a spit outside the cookhouse. Sharp’s men ate well.

  Inside the house, I discovered another surprise. The furnishings were big and comfortable, sized to fit a man. Despite the masculine feeling, the house showed subtle signs of refined taste. Heavy but well-proportioned ranch-style couches and chairs were accented with rich rugs, expensive lighting fixtures, and scattered wooden ceremonial masks that I presumed came from South America. Sharp had used his travel souvenirs to good effect.

  Somehow the exterior and interior of the house worked together, and I was sure that a lesser mortal like myself would have made a hash of the whole thing. Despite our numerous conversations, I realized that I still did not know Jeff Sharp very well.

  McAllen and I stood in the center of the parlor trying to figure out what to do, when a servant entered and offered us liquor, beer, or coffee. Since the day had already grown hot, and we were thirsty from our ride, we both requested beer, despite the early hour. The servant indicated we should sit and, with deliberate care, placed a coaster in front of each of us. Looking around, I decided the arrangement of couches and chairs created a comfortable seating area that would make any hotel owner proud.

  Captain McAllen gave me a quizzical look before saying, “You haven’t been here before, have you?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you said you were friends.”

  “Actually, Jeff was the one who referred to me as a friend. I didn’t meet him until this feud started, and I’ve kept close to town since.”

  “Well, Jeff didn’t build this place. A bigheaded miner erected this monument to his supposed brilliance.” McAllen leaned over and lifted the lid from an expensive-looking humidor. The cigar he extracted looked equally expensive. “Unfortunately, the silver didn’t run as far as his ambitions.”

  McAllen sniffed at the cigar before striking a match against his thigh and waving it in front of the tip. He took a long, satisfied draw, leaned his head back, and blew smoke at the ceiling. He was taking far too much pleasure in demonstrating his familiarity with the house.

  “If the silver ran out,” I asked, “why does Jeff run this huge operation here?”

  A voice came from behind me. “I want the men close so I can
direct them, an’ I want the ore processed under my nose. We haul ore here from nine different mines spread around these foothills.”

  I hadn’t seen Sharp enter the parlor. He took the armchair at the head of the seating arrangement and reached for the humidor. “Care for a cigar, Steve? They come from Cuba, an’ they’re as smooth as the inside of a woman’s thigh.”

  I reached into my pocket. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stick with my pipe.” As I went through the ritual of lighting it, I said, “It’s hard to believe Washburn’s operation’s bigger than this.”

  “Washburn scatters his ventures all over.” Sharp enjoyed a puff on his cigar before adding, “He doesn’t fear an attack from me, so he has no reason to consolidate his smeltin’ operations. I, on the other hand, don’t retain a similar confidence in him. I’d rather risk the loss of a single wagon of unprocessed ore than lose a remote outpost.”

  I nodded because it made sense. “We saw a lot of guards on the way up. Did you add them when this trouble started?”

  “Always been there. There’s a lot of silver to protect. The guards check people comin’ an’ goin’.”

  “Going?”

  “The greatest minin’ risk is theft, an’ refined ore is easy to steal in small quantities. People who work for me know they’ll be searched every time they leave.” He waved his cigar, leaving a trail of smoke in the air. “Just comes with the job.”

  “How many people work for you?”

  “Over two hundred hereabouts, countin’ miners, wranglers, teamsters, guards, engineers, an’ the people to take care of them. Washburn has at least double that number, probably more.”

  The servant entered with a tray loaded with three chilled beers. After an appreciative swallow, I asked, “Who do you bank with in Carson City?”

  Sharp took a swallow of his own beer before answering. “You have as much of my business as I intend to keep local.”

  “I’m not interested in more of your business. I am interested in whether you bank with Commerce.”

  “Why?” He looked surprised.

  “My guess is that Washburn uses Carson City First, and I want to apply financial pressure on him. An alliance with Commerce Bank could help.”

  Sharp studied his beer and then me. “You’re right about both our bankin’ habits, but I don’t see how it matters.”

  “I don’t have it all figured out yet, but it’ll matter. Washburn’s spread thin, and I’ll find a way to leverage that.”

  “You’re thinkin’ ya can bankrupt Washburn?” Sharp looked dubious.

  “Not enough time, but perhaps I can make him desperate … and desperate men fight sloppy.”

  “Washburn’ll just shoot you.” McAllen sounded disdainful.

  “You mean he’ll hire someone to shoot me. Hiring takes money. If I can pinch his purse, I reduce his power. I aim to attack him on the political and business front while he tries to attack me with guns.”

  Captain McAllen shook his head. “I don’t like your chances. You might be long dead before your way can work.”

  “That’s why I hired you, to get me the time I need.”

  McAllen took a satisfied draw on his cigar. “Time is what I sell.”

  I laughed. “Please inform your office that you foresee a long engagement.”

  Chapter 20

  The six of us left Sharp’s place after a hearty breakfast. I should say four of us, because two of the Pinkertons had left an hour before. It was a three-day ride to the Bolton ranch, but McAllen told me that the first day held the most danger, because the narrow valley we had to pass through provided good cover and a reasonable shot for a marksman.

  As we made our way down the center of the tight basin, I occasionally spotted the two Pinkertons riding up on the ridges to either side. By late afternoon, we emerged into a broad valley flanked by distant mountains. McAllen led us off a road that meandered close to the western range and guided us into the middle of the valley. Although this route made the ride more difficult, it put almost a mile between us and any ambush shelter. The expansive sight lines and the absence of trees made me feel more comfortable.

  We rode mostly in silence. Jeff Sharp and Captain McAllen stayed in front and barely spoke a word. McAllen evidently thought it unnecessary to introduce me to his men, and they kept a stern, professional demeanor during the ride. The only thing I knew about the man who wore my clothes and had adopted my horse was that his first name was Sam.

  Sam spoke to me for the first time, after we emerged from the foothills into the open plain. “Fine horse. What’s his name?”

  “Chestnut … and I’d appreciate it if you returned him unscathed.”

  Sam gave a short laugh before answering. “I’ll do my best. Where’d ya git him?”

  “Denver. I traveled from New York to Denver by train, so I needed a rig. The first thing I bought was a horse. Most of my other gear I bought at auction.”

  “You’re a good judge of horseflesh.”

  “Well, I actually know only eastern riding horses, so I hired a wrangler to help me pick out a good horse for western terrain.”

  “Really … and how’d ya pick your wrangler?”

  “That’s an odd question.”

  “Not if ya know Denver. The town’s full of hucksters ready to skin some newcomer with more money than sense.”

  “Well, I watched the horse trading for a couple days to see who bought and at what price. I also wanted to see who would back off and let another buyer take an animal that had outrun its value. After I spotted a savvy buyer, I approached him and asked for his help.”

  “How much?”

  “We agreed on a ten-percent commission.”

  “He picked the horse on his own?”

  “You mean, did he pick the seller?” I had figured out where his questions were leading. “No, I’d heard about buyers and sellers in cahoots. I asked a lot of questions about the animal and the breeder before I authorized haggling.”

  “Ya did right well by yourself. Chestnut’s a fine horse for rough country.”

  This pleased me more than it should have, because I already knew Chestnut was an exceptional animal; but praise from someone as seasoned as Sam made me feel good.

  Just when I thought Sam had relapsed into silence, he asked, “Your saddle doesn’t look new.”

  Now I laughed. “I thought if I bought used gear, I might not look like a greenhorn.”

  “Guessed as much.” Sam adjusted his seat. “’Twern’t to save money.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You make decisions like a rich man … ’Sides, six Pinkertons don’t come cheap.” Sam leaned forward and patted Chestnut’s neck. After he resettled in his saddle, he asked, “Why’d ya leave the big city?”

  “Family matter.”

  Sam looked intrigued. “What kind of family matter?”

  “A private family matter.”

  “Sorry.” He tipped his hat in my direction. “Didn’t mean to pry; it’s just that a family quarrel drove me outta Missouri.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t help but ask, “What kind of family quarrel?”

  “Well now, perhaps mine’s private as well.”

  I chuckled at the expected answer and tipped my own hat. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Actually, not private at all. Kinda spread all over the country, for that matter.” Sam’s expression took on a melancholy hue. “Bad times back home. Despicable Yankees versus true patriots. At least, that’s the way my family saw it. Since my sympathies fell with the Union, I became despicable.” He sighed. “Almost twenty years ago.” He rode a few strides before adding, “Haven’t been home since … Miss it terrible at times.”

  That gave me pause. I intended to stay away for a good while, but in the back of my mind, I had thought I would eventually return home. Before I knew it, I found myself saying things out loud that I seldom even said to myself.

  “When my father died, his older brother took me under his wing.
My uncle showed me how to make money … New York style. After a while, I learned why my father had kept his distance from him and the rest of the family’s affairs. I was young and naive, but eventually I got tired of his sleazy way of doing business and told him I no longer wanted his help. Made him madder than hell. He secretly got on the other side of a deal of mine so he could teach me a lesson, but I won, and he lost a pile of money … family money.”

  “So ya left?”

  “Not right away. But the whole family turned on me, so when I saw they weren’t going to forget about it, I sold everything and said goodbye to the big city.”

  “So you became despicable too.”

  “Guess we got that in common.”

  Sam rode awhile before saying, “No offense, but that story kinda backs what my father always said about Yankees and their greed.”

  “No offense taken. I wish money wasn’t so important to my family.”

  “Not to you?”

  “Me? No, money’s just the score. A way to keep track of who’s winning and who’s losing … and I like to win.”

  “There’s ways to win that ain’t scored with money.”

  I wanted to change the subject. “Why are you in this line of work?”

  “Pride in workin’ for a top-notch outfit. Work’s interestin’, an’ we do more good than bad.”

  “You do bad?”

  Sam shrugged. “Men sometimes lie when they hire us.”

  “Did you ever quit a job when you found out the truth?”

  Another shrug. “Not my call.”

  “You hold with the captain’s decision?”

  “If I want to ride with Pinkerton, that’s just the way it is.”

  “Suppose so.” I stood in my stirrups a minute to relieve my sore buttocks. “Are you comfortable with this engagement?”

  Sam looked at me. “Washburn’s a bad man. I don’t like the trail ya picked much, but I’ll stick with it.”

  I settled back in my saddle. “What would you do differently?”

  Sam rode in silence for a long moment. “I’m a direct man who likes simple solutions. Your path meanders, an’ I can’t see the end point. But … that said, other than just walkin’ up an’ shootin’ the man, I don’t know what else ya can do.”