by Tim Champlin
Scrivener picked up his gin and also turned around, hooking a boot heel on the brass rail behind him.
Before Ross could say a word, Scrivener directed his attention to someone at a nearby table. “Calvin Tibbs,” he said under his breath.
“Who?”
“The drunk you spilled coffee on the other day. The one who tried to knife you.”
Ross looked. The man sat alone, reading a copy of The Gold Hill Clarion. He was shaved and appeared reasonably sober, although a bottle of Old Noble Treble Crown Whiskey rested near at hand. A white bandage showed under the edge of his hat.
Tibbs glanced up and caught Scrivener staring at him.
“They run you out of Barnum’s?” the editor asked.
“You busted my head when I wasn’t looking, you son-of-a-bitch,” Tibbs replied. “A man who’d do that is probably a back-shooter, too.” He raised the newspaper and made as if to resume reading.
“What do you find to read that’s instructive in that rag?” Scrivener asked, an edge to his voice.
“Oh, I read the Clarion to get the news. I use the Enterprise to wipe my ass.”
“Then keep right on, my learned friend,” Scrivener replied, “and in short order your ass will know more than your head ever will.”
Ross was in the act of swallowing, and spewed a mouthful of beer onto the floor. Laughing, he wiped his mouth and nose with his shirt sleeve. “Damn, Martin, you been hanging around Sam Clemens too long,” he said under his breath, looking to see if Tibbs was reaching for a gun. Men were killed in this town every day for lesser insults than that.
Scrivener was evidently thinking the same. “He’s got a Colt under his coat, but he’s too shaky to use it,” he said.
Tibbs’s face reddened, but he appeared not to hear as he kept his eyes on the paper.
“Let’s go find a table so we can talk,” the editor said. “I’ve gained nothing by besting a fool in a battle of wits. He was unarmed.”
The two men sought a small table in an out-of-the-way corner.
“I don’t want to add to your burdens, but, in a way, this concerns you,” Ross began. He laid out the story he’d heard that afternoon from the two miners. “Since you and Frank Fossett at the Clarion are at each other’s throats, I haven’t violated any confidences by telling you this. If you and Clemens have already exposed Fossett in print, maybe he’s fighting back because he doesn’t want it to be known he’s part of a larger criminal conspiracy involving a mine owner and Ben Holladay’s attempted takeover of the Wells, Fargo Pioneer Stage Line.”
Scrivener sipped his gin and looked thoughtful. “What did you have in mind?” he finally asked.
“To begin, I’d like to get a good look into the Blue Hole Mine, to see if it’s producing. But I don’t know how to go about it. Miners are working around the clock, including a foreman and probably a superintendent much of the time. Don’t see how I can slip in. Asking permission would be a waste of time.”
“Nobody at the Blue Hole knows you on sight, except that miner you met today,” Scrivener said. “If Avery Tuttle is out to unload that mine on some sucker, maybe you could pretend to be that sucker. Then someone would have to let you in to look around to avoid suspicion. No prospective buyer is going to purchase, sight unseen.”
“Wouldn’t Tuttle stand to make more money if he sold stock in the mine, mostly to investors overseas who wouldn’t be likely to come here?” Ross asked.
“Sure. He could be successful doing that very thing, because investors in England and other countries know of the actual concentration of good ore on the Comstock. They’d therefore be more trusting that all mines in this area are rich. Fossett’s Gold Hill Clarion would trumpet the richness of the mine to help him. But Tuttle would be taking a big risk. If he were caught, he could be convicted of fraud and go to prison. By selling outright, he leaves himself in the clear because he could always say the vein pinched out right after he sold, so it’s not his fault. Strictly a buyer beware situation.”
Ross shook his head. “If there’s a new way to skin your fellow man, some sharp crook is going to think of it.”
“The human mind can be just as inventive when put to criminal uses as it can when put to good uses.” Scrivener took a sip of gin, apparently not dismayed by the vicissitudes of humans.
Ross silently considered the idea of posing as a buyer. Risky. What if he were recognized and identified as a government mine inspector? At the very least, he’d be cussed at and thrown out. At worst…? He shivered, and quickly dismissed the possibility of some violent reaction on the part of the foreman or superintendent. But Scrivener’s suggestion was sound. It was probably the only way he’d be able to see inside the Blue Hole.
“I’ll have at it in the morning,” Ross said. “When I buy a new coat, I’ll make it a nice one, if they’re to be fooled into thinking I have money.”
Scrivener grinned. “I’d lend you my diamond stickpin…if I owned one. Fifty dollars a week salary in this town hasn’t made me one of the nabobs.”
Chapter Eight
“Chester Gibbons, from San Francisco,” Ross said, extending his hand to the superintendent of the Blue Hole Mine. They stood by the hoisting works the next morning at 10:00 a.m.
“Barry Gunderson,” the middle-aged man said, eyes peeking between pouches of fat below and hooded lids above.
The night before, Scrivener had said that Gunderson was known on the Comstock as Old Squinch Eye. “He may appear to be putting a hex on you with his evil eye, but don’t pay him any mind. In spite of his size and look, the man’s as harmless as a garter snake. Just stick to your tale of being a buyer, and you’ll do all right.”
“I represent a group of Montgomery Street investors,” Ross continued. “They’ve asked me to have a look at the Blue Hole before they make Mister Tuttle an offer on it.” He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off the sleeve of his black broadcloth coat. He’d draped his gold watch chain across his mid-section, from one vest pocket to the other. “It’s not as if they don’t trust the assay reports and production figures,” he continued. “But they’re astute businessmen and never buy a pig in a poke, so to speak.”
“Yes, yes. I understand. I’ll be your guide. Come with me, if you’re ready.”
He didn’t offer to provide Ross with a pair of coveralls to protect his clothing. This was evidently going to be a short tour.
“Jorge, stand by.”
The Mexican took the bridle of an old blind horse harnessed to a whim.
“We’ll be lowered down in the bucket,” Gunderson said.
Ross buttoned his coat to protect his watch chain and to conceal the butt of his Colt. He didn’t think he’d encounter anyone who’d recognize him. Rucker was the only miner he knew here, but Rucker wasn’t on duty, having worked the night shift.
“We both going down in that bucket at the same time?”
Gunderson weighed 250 pounds if he weighed an ounce.
“Yes, the bucket’s plenty big.”
The iron-bound wooden bucket was battered and scarred.
“That rope’s old and frayed.”
“Sir, it’s safe. It’ll carry a ton of ore. I don’t reckon we weigh a ton.”
“Is there another way down?” Ross asked, playing the part of the timid city businessman. “What if that blind horse runs away and drops us down?”
“That horse is used to this. He never runs. Look…he’s asleep now. It’s easy for him to let us down. Coming back up is when he has a hard time pulling.”
“What if the bucket catches on something and tips us out?”
“Well, sometimes the bucket does catch, but nobody’s been hurt bad. Had one man fall about fifteen feet and land on the top of his head.”
“Killed, I guess.”
“No. He was only stunned a little. Wasn’t hurt much.
Had a buzzing in his brain for a few days. But he’s back at work down there right now.”
“Amazing. But, if it’s all the sam
e to you, I think I’ll go down by the ladder.”
“Suit yourself, sir. But the ladder’s sort of broke in spots, and you’ll find it a tolerable hard climb down. But I’ll go ahead in the bucket and sing out when I come to the bad places.”
With that, Gunderson disappeared down the shaft, the blind horse walking around and around, paying out the rope. The vertical shaft was about four feet square, rough-sided and dark. Ross looked down and watched Gunderson’s candle grow dimmer and dimmer. The series of ladders stood on the near side of the shaft, resting on ledges, or hanging together by means of chafed ropes.
Ross began to regret he’d declined Gunderson’s invitation, but it was too late now as the big man was already out of sight below.
With a hurried glance at the bright world around him, Ross seized the first ladder and began his descent. Down he crept, rung after rung, ladder after ladder, solid walls of rock pressing the stagnant air closely about him. Now and then he heard voices muttering somewhere below, but couldn’t tell if it was Gunderson warning him of a break in the ladder. The narrow shaft swallowed and distorted sounds. After a time, it seemed he must have descended at least a thousand feet. He knew, in reality, it was probably less than two hundred. Down and down he crept. Was the fatigue he felt the result of odorless poison gas working on him? What if he should fall? He had no fear of heights, but the thought made him hesitate, take a deep breath, and get a firmer grip. He’d carried his city businessman pose too far. His forearms began to ache with the effort of holding his weight. Several more minutes of exertion made him breathless and he paused, clinging to the ladder, panting for air. Cold sweat trickled down his face. The breaks in the ladder were becoming more frequent. His questing foot found two rungs missing, then six or seven. When he felt nothing beneath him, he crooked both elbows around the sides of the ladder and slid down until his feet contacted another rung or a solid ledge of rock. This ladder, as an alternate method of exit, was useless, apparently abandoned to rot—another way for the owners to avoid spending any money on safety.
Finally he reached the bottom of the shaft where Gunderson and three other miners awaited him. The men shoveled broken rock from the ore cars into the bucket, working with no wasted motion, and without getting in each other’s way despite the small passageway. It was clear they’d performed this task hundreds of times.
“Stand from under!” Gunderson called as he yanked the bell rope, signaling Jorge at the surface to walk the blind horse and begin winding the hoist. “A chunk of ore might fall out, or the bucket might give way.” Ross, busy catching his breath and being thankful he was standing on solid ground, attempted to get a good look at the ore to see if it was actually silver ore, or only loose rocks and earth. But Gunderson pushed him back against the wall until it was safe to move.
Holding his candle aloft, Gunderson led the way down toward the face of the drift where the miners were at work on what he called a rich ledge. To Ross’s practiced eye, it was only a three-foot thick ledge of rock, angling across the side of the drift. It bore no resemblance to any silver ore he’d seen before. If it was rich in precious metal, it was not apparent. Then Gunderson held his candle closer and Ross noticed the rock was imbedded with tiny specks of what appeared to be glittering gold dust.
“Get you a couple samples o’ that ore, Mister Gibbons,” Gunderson said.
Ross broke off some small samples of the ore and thrust them into his pockets.
“We’re only a hundred and seventy-five feet below the surface,” Gunderson said.
They were standing on a platform of loose rafters and planks, built to allow the miners to work the higher side of the tunnel.
“If you like, we’ll go down below and take a look at the lower drift,” the big man said. “The men have just struck a rich ledge forty feet below.”
“Are the ladders as good as those above?” Ross asked.
“Oh, yes,” Gunderson replied seriously, missing the sarcasm. “They’re all good, except a couple of them may be busted up a little with the blasting. But there’s two miners down there. I guess they got down somehow.”
“Actually Mister Gunderson, I believe I’ve seen quite enough. These samples of ore I’ve taken will be sufficient.”
“Yes, sir. But I’d like you to see the vein where the drift strikes it. It’s really beautiful.”
There must be rich ore visible, Ross thought, or the foreman wouldn’t be so eager to show it. He allowed the big man to lift up the planks.
“You men put these planks back in place as soon as we go down,” Gunderson instructed the miners. “I don’t want any rocks falling on our heads.” He fetched a nearby candle and handed it to Ross. “Come along, Mister Gibbons,” he said, and proceeded to climb down the unseen ladder.
Ross repeated the name, Gibbons, to himself several times to be sure he could remember who he was supposed to be.
As soon as Ross had gone down a few feet, the planks were dropped into place, effectively cutting them off from the tunnel above, and shutting off all light except the candles they held. And even these were burning low as the supply of oxygen diminished.
He worked his way down the rickety ladders, feeling for every foothold, until the last rung apparently disappeared. He probed about with his foot for a landing place, but couldn’t touch bottom or sides. He was suspended in space.
“Come on, Mister Gibbons!” Gunderson yelled from far below. “They’re going to blast.”
Ross gripped the ladder and probed the empty space with one leg. Hot wax from his tilted candle was dripping down the sleeve of his new coat, so he blew it out and shoved it into his pocket. Gunderson could relight it later. “I’ll be glad to come down, Gunderson, if you can tell me what happened to the rest of the ladder. How far do you expect me to drop?”
“Oh, don’t let go, sir. Just hang to that rope at the bottom of the ladder and slide down.”
Ross found the dangling rope and slid the last several feet to the bottom. Gunderson re-lighted Ross’s candle with his own and the two men walked about ten paces to huddle into a deep niche in the wall.
A few seconds later the blast went off with a dead reverberation. Ross felt the concussion through his feet and air rushed past his face carrying the diabolical smell of brimstone.
Gunderson, in spite of his bulk, was one of the first to reach the shattered ledge where lay a mass of blackened quartz.
“There, Mister Gibbons…see it? Did you ever see anything like that? Pure gold.”
“I thought you were mining silver.”
“Oh, we’re taking out both.”
Ross held his candle close and saw the glittering specks, as if shaken from a pepper shaker. Once more, he helped himself to a few samples.
Two miners were shoveling the broken rock into an ore car, as the smoke and dust drifted slowly away in the light of their candles. It was no wonder Jacob Sturm had contracted silicosis. No water spray was available to settle the dust; no masks were worn by the men; no fresh air was being forced down the shafts from blowers on the surface.
“That’s all I need to see, Gunderson,” Ross said.
“Then I’ll see you up top,” the big man said, stepping quickly away and disappearing into a side tunnel.
“Hey, wait!”
The light from Gunderson’s candle vanished.
Ross ducked into the tunnel and ran after the superintendent, shielding his candle flame from the breeze he was creating. He rounded a bend, then another. His own candle was the only light. The big man seemed to have vaporized into the hot, dead air. “Gunderson!” he yelled. The sound of his voice was muffled about two feet from his mouth. “Gunderson!” He stopped to listen. His own harsh breathing was the only sound. He hurried on another fifty yards until he reached a larger chamber that branched off into three different tunnels. He gave up, realizing he would be hopelessly lost unless he retraced his steps. Again protecting the candle flame, he turned and jogged back to where the miners had set off the blast. They were
gone. Only two half-filled ore cars were there. The wavering candle flame pushed back the smothering blackness only a few feet. He was alone.
As he stood there, realizing his guide had deliberately abandoned him to die, he fought a creeping panic. Calling on his experience, he slowed his breathing. In the close atmosphere, sweat coursed down his face and down his sides under his shirt. He shouted several times, paused to listen, but received no answer. He could feel his heart thumping heavily against his rib cage. He was entombed alive in a silent, airless crypt hundreds of feet inside the mountain. It took all his training and self-control to keep from trembling. The candle flame wavered. Since he had no matches, he had to be careful it didn’t go out, so he dripped a tiny pool of wax on a shoulder high ledge and fixed the candle upright to give maximum light.
His knees felt a bit weak and he sat down on the floor, leaning back against the wall until the feeling passed. He wiped his face, realizing he had to get a grip on these emotions. Wild panic would be the surest way to death. Until now, no one had ever deliberately tried to lose him in any underground passages. Slowly he began to relax, but the subsiding excitement left him tired and spent.
If he could keep his head about him, he’d find a way out of here. First of all, he had to accept the fact that Gunderson had probably known all along who he was, and purposely led him down to this depth to abandon him. If his body turned up later, it would be termed an accident—dismissed as some trespasser who’d gotten drunk and stumbled into a shaft in the dark. No, that lie wouldn’t work. With no marks on his body, they’d have to say he’d sneaked into the mine, gotten lost, and died of hunger and thirst. He knew unexplained corpses often turned up in mines, so no one would think twice about it—especially if they removed all identification from his pockets.
What was done was done. He now had to put his mind to the task of finding a way out. Gunderson would not block the main shaft because there were miners working in the tunnels. And there were buckets of ore to be hauled to the surface. Other miners—that was it. He had to find a miner who could show him the way out. But this mine had miles of drifts and stopes and vertical shafts. Aside from sheer luck, how could he locate a miner? He listened intently for a few seconds, thinking he heard the sound of picks and shovels at work. But all was silent as a tomb. He could not go wandering off at random, searching. If he found no one, he’d be hopelessly lost. At least if he stayed here, he might be able to backtrack the way he’d come; the shaft he’d descended was somewhere just above.
