West of Washoe

by Tim Champlin

  He nodded, cringing, since he’d just lost what amounted to half of a miner’s daily wage. But everyone in this town was free and easy with money. Why should he be different? Because he had to live on his salary, that’s why. And the government didn’t count gambling losses as a travel expense.

  She dealt and he bet, trying to outguess her. This time he won and was back even.

  Two more games followed and he lost both, putting himself down $5. “Enough for me,” he said, pushing back from the table. The mid-morning crowd was light. Since no one was waiting to gamble, he said: “You were the lady on the Washoe Express the other night coming in from Placerville.”

  She looked at him, and recognition dawned in her eyes. “Yes. Sorry I didn’t place you right away, but I don’t usually study my customers. How’s your leg?”

  “Only a few scratches from stray buckshot. Thanks to the whiskey in your flask, it’s healing fine.”

  “I didn’t thank you for having the nerve to defend us.” She smiled at him and he felt as if he’d been enveloped by a sudden burst of sunshine. “That whiskey drummer was useless.”

  Ross nodded, slightly embarrassed.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t very much company for you,” she went on. “But I was exhausted. Been awake for twenty-four hours before I boarded the stage.”

  “Don’t know how you managed to sleep, with all that excitement.”

  “Once we got clear of them, I was confident the driver and you and the guard would keep us from being stopped.”

  “Cool nerves,” Ross said admiringly. “The way we were being slung around inside the coach, I thought the driver might run us off that narrow road into one of those cañons.”

  She laughed. “Well, we made it, and I find I can sleep well when I’m moving, especially if there’s a storm outside. By the way, my name’s Angeline Champeaux.” She extended a slim hand.

  “I know. I’m Gil Ross,” he said, taking the tapered fingers, noting the perfect manicure. A woman with her hands on display had to have them immaculate. He envisioned the rest of her on display, but shoved the thought from his mind.

  “Gil, it’s nice to see you again. With thousands of people in Virginia City, chances are slim of running into the same man twice.” She looked over Ross’s shoulder. “Unless it’s somebody like Sam Clemens.”

  Ross caught a whiff of rank cigar smoke and knew before he turned around the Enterprise reporter had walked up behind him. “Sam, it must be nice to sleep late every morning and hang around saloons in the middle of the day, not having to work.”

  “You misjudge me, Gil,” Sam replied. “I’m working, gathering news. Just came from watching part of an autopsy, and then attended an inquest. Put me in mind of my own mortality, and brought on a powerful thirst.” He had a foaming mug in hand.

  Ross chuckled. “So you two are acquainted?”

  “Sam and I originally arrived in town about the same time,” Angeline replied.

  “Angie’s too high-toned for me, but she does pass along some news to help fill a column or two.”

  “At least you don’t have to make up those stupid hoaxes any more,” she said. “Like that thing you wrote last year about a whole wagon train of immigrants being massacred by Indians.” She made a wry face. “And that story about the petrified man.”

  “Probably not the two best ideas I ever had,” Clemens acknowledged. “A lot of people took those seriously. No sense of humor. But when I first started at the Enterprise, there wasn’t much going on here. Duller than paint. Some days I had to let my imagination run free to fill a column.” He chuckled, puffing his cigar. “Not any more. Town’s been mighty lively for months. Everyone goes armed, so there’s an inquest ‘most every day.”

  “Better take care one of them isn’t yours,” Ross said, thinking of their previous conversation about a possible duel with Frank Fossett. He decided not to mention anything in front of the woman.

  “Now there’s more going on than Scrivener has room to print,” Clemens continued. “Flush times. Money as common as dust. Everyone considers himself a millionaire. Brass bands, banks, hotels, big quartz mill cleanups, hurdy-gurdy houses, gambling palaces, political powwows, street fights, murders, riots. Everything is competing for space in the paper…stage hold-ups, stock fraud. All the folks who own little hole-in-the-ground mines are trying to bribe me to write a line or two about their likely looking ore, or how their ledges are very similar to those in the Ophir…” He shook his head. “Virginia City has become an amazing place. Prices for town lots are going sky high. As an active, concerned citizen, I considered joining one of the volunteer fire brigades, but don’t have time for all that spit and polish and parades. Besides, I’d rather enjoy this rarified air than breathe smoke…except for these.” He held up his cigar.

  “Sam, you rattle on too much,” Angeline said. “What you need is a woman to calm you down.”

  “Is that an offer?”

  She rolled her eyes in mock despair. “Sam and I are like brother and sister,” she explained to Ross.

  “Unfortunately,” Clemens said.

  A concussion shook the floor and rattled glassware on the backbar.

  “That was either an explosion, or one of your frequent earthquakes,” Ross said, now rising from his stool and glancing to see how far he was from the door.

  “Underground blasting,” Angeline said. “Nothing to get concerned about. Happens several times a day.”

  “That’s the sound of money,” Clemens said. “When they get through hollowing out these mountains, Washoe will collapse as flat as this floor. But I don’t reckon it’ll happen this week.”

  “Is your blackjack table open?” a bearded man asked.

  Ross and Clemens moved aside.

  “Have at it,” Ross said.

  The man sat down on the stool and pulled out a rawhide poke.

  “I’ll see you gentlemen later,” Angeline said, shuffling her deck.

  Ross and Clemens nodded to her and moved away. “Tell your boss I’ll be down to see him at the paper this afternoon,” Ross said. “We live at the same boarding house, but he keeps uncivilized hours, so I never see him there.”

  “Right.”

  Ross drained his beer and set his glass on the bar. He started back toward his boarding house to work on his report.

  Halfway there, his sore muscles were complaining so much he felt like a rusty machine when he moved. He stopped at a Chinese bathhouse and soaked his bruised body for a half hour in a wooden tub full of steaming water.

  Feeling limber, clean, and relaxed, he pulled on the tough tan canvas pants and white cotton shirt he’d bought after his sojourn in the mine the day before. This town was not like San Francisco—no one dressed up. Miners, barmen, merchants, and everyone else seemed to dress for the weather and for comfort. Except for the very rich, clothes didn’t denote the social status of the citizens.

  Back in his room, Ross sat down to work on his report. He listed all the mines he’d inspected, along with the depths of their shafts, the tonnage of the extracted ore for the past six months, how many ounces per ton were extracted and smelted into ingots. He drew a rough map of the area, locating all the mines, large and small; he would add a more professional map later. Then he launched into a description of the mountains, with Mount Davidson as its principle peak.

  This mountain is composed mainly of what miners called “country rock”, their name for the common syenite that forms the mass of the mountain. On the east side of the mountain, the common rock is propylite, of volcanic origin. Between these two common types of rock lies a series of fissures containing the Comstock deposits. In general, this series of fissures is about four miles long and from one hundred to fifteen hundred feet in width. These rents were caused by an uplifting of the earth’s crust, which had then shattered, the uplifted crust falling back while steam and hot clay continued to be forced up into the rents, carrying up the precious metals.

  Fragments from the edges of the ragge
d chasm on the east side fell back into the opening and, sliding down the smooth slope of the syenite, blocked the fissure from closing. Some of these fragments are massive—one thousand feet long and four hundred feet in thickness. These still rest in the vein, the ore, quartz, etc. having formed about them. The layers are stratified, and the ledges are broken and irregular, underlying each other. In places are found detached patches and masses of gypsum and carbonate of lime. The ore contains native gold, silver, some rich galena and antimony, and a few rare forms of silver in small quantities. Also mingled with the mass of ore are iron pyrites, copper pyrites, zinc blend, and a few other minerals. The chasm in which is formed the Comstock lode was doubtless at one time a seething cauldron. As the digging continues and greater depths are attained in the mines, not only are great quantities of hot water found, but the rock itself is in many places sufficiently hot as to be painful to the naked hand. The east wall of propylite of the vein is very jagged and uneven, while the less disturbed west or syenite wall of the rest is quite regular, descending to the eastward at an angle of thirty-five to fifty degrees, being throughout quite smooth and covered with a heavy coating of clay.

  Hot springs abound through the region and the geology continues to evolve. For the foreseeable future, the amount of gold and silver being taken from the Comstock will, taken as a whole, continue to increase. Based on my experience and judgment, the greatest deposits of precious metals remain to be found.

  Ross put down his pen, got up, stretched, and walked around the room, stopping to stare out the window. How much of what he was writing was based on fact, and how much on speculation? He would stake his reputation and his life on the prediction that this area would be vastly productive for at least another fifty years.

  He sat back down at the table and dipped his pen into the ink bottle. He continued to write, revise, and edit until mid-afternoon.

  Finally satisfied for the time being, he put his writing materials under the bed and slipped on his corduroy jacket.

  He’d had several hours to ponder his alternatives. His course of action was finally decided by the mental image of the dying miner, Jacob Sturm. He strode down the street two blocks to the rented room where Jacob Sturm lived. Ross was in luck. The roommate, John Rucker, was there, and awake.

  “Come in,” the miner said, answering the knock and holding the door open.

  “How is he?” Ross asked, nodding at the sleeping Sturm in his bunk.

  Rucker shook his head, and guided Ross to the other end of the room before he spoke. “I’m doing all I can, but I doubt he’ll last out the week. The doc gave me some pain medicine to ease him along.”

  “Is he still drinking that damned elixir?”

  Rucker nodded. “If he wants it, I let him have some. Can’t hurt anything now. He says it helps.”

  “Can I get anything for him…or for you?”

  “No. When he wakes up, I’ll give him some food before I go to work.”

  “You’re really the one I came to see,” Ross said. “Wanted to ask if any of the miners said anything about Gunderson trying to lose me in the Blue Hole.” Ross briefly related his experience in the mine, and his eventual escape.

  “I heard someone pulled a gun on two of the men and forced them to take him to the main shaft hoist. So that was you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jorge said you came up, yelling for Gunderson. I don’t blame you. Gunderson showed up later…from another exit, like a damned prairie dog. Told the two miners you’d somehow wandered off and got separated and he wanted to apologize. Said he was going to look for you to see what you thought of the mine as a prospect for your buyers. I think he called you by another name.”

  “Gibbons. I made out to represent some buyers from San Francisco,” Ross said. “So that’s the way he’s going to play it…deny everything and make out like it was all an accident. And I can’t prove otherwise.” Ross reached into his coat pocket. “But I have something else here that will put pressure on the management and owners of the Blue Hole.”

  He showed Rucker the ore samples he’d picked up, and explained he’d concluded the mine had been salted.

  Rucker took the magnifying glass and the lumps of ore to the window and examined them in clear daylight. “No doubt about it,” Rucker said, handing back the rock. “Might fool a layman who’s looking to buy a gold mine, though.”

  “When’s the next union meeting?”

  “Tomorrow night. Want me to tell them you’ve got some hard evidence?”

  “Sure. And tell them to keep their eyes open for this while they’re digging.”

  “We’re searched when we come off our shifts, to be certain we don’t steal any rich ore.”

  “That’s all right. I have some right here. If the editor of the Enterprise agrees, everything I told you will appear in the next edition of the paper. That should force some kind of reaction.”

  “Why don’t you give me that ore and let me show it at Union Hall?”

  “Mining is your livelihood. I’m a mine inspector. Let me and the newspaper editor fight this battle. If we win, everybody will benefit, and no miners will be blackballed.”

  “You’re taking one helluva chance,” Rucker said. “Men are gunned down or disappear every day in this town for a lot less than exposing crime in high places. Take my word for it, they’ll smash you like a bug.”

  “They blindsided me once, but next time I’ll be ready.” Ross smiled grimly, placing a hand on his Navy Colt. “Tuttle, Fossett, and company will think they’ve stepped into a den of Mojave rattlers.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Just before sundown, Ross returned to The Territorial Enterprise office. Workmen were putting the finishing touches on the restored window and frame. The smoke-blackened brick on the front of the building had been scrubbed clean, the wooden frame replaced, and the tall, narrow pane of glass installed. All that remained was for the frame to be painted, and the place would look as if it had never been damaged.

  Ross found Scrivener at his desk and in a better state of mind than when he’d last seen him.

  “Where’ve you been the last couple of days?” the editor greeted him.

  “Gathering news for your paper,” Ross replied, pulling up a chair. He proceeded to relate his experience in the Blue Hole Mine and what he’d discovered from the ore samples brought out.

  “Confirms our editorials were right all along,” Scrivener said. “If that superintendent was ordered to maroon you in the mine to die, then probably the owner found out who you really are. Not too surprising when you figure we ran a notice about your arrival and your purpose here. I’m sure a number of people in town have put your name and face together by now.”

  Ross dug out the ore samples and Scrivener turned up the wick of his desk lamp, adjusted the spectacles on his sharp nose, and examined the rock carefully while Ross pointed out what to look for.

  “Yes, I’ve seen examples of salted ore before,” Scrivener said, as if he didn’t really need any help. “These would fool most folks, though,” he added, swiveling his chair around to work the combination of the heavy floor safe behind him. “If you have no objections, I’ll stash these here for safekeeping, just in case. We have your word these came from the Blue Hole, but no hard proof. Though newspapers are not a court of law, we are the court of public opinion. It really doesn’t matter if what we know to be true cannot be proven to a certainty.” He locked the door, spun the combination, and swiveled back around to his desk. “I’ll write up a piece for the next edition.” He looked sharply at Ross, and added: “If that’s what you want. If you’d rather stay out of it, I’ll just do an editorial, stating I have proof of the owner’s duplicity and fraud. I won’t have to mention what it is or how I got it.”

  “No, go ahead and tell how I got it and that I’m certain an attempt was made on my life…an attempt supposed to look like an accident.”

  “You look a little dragged out,” Scrivener said, peering over the tops of his g
lasses. “Better get some rest. When this hits the paper, Fossett will be on the warpath again. No telling what he’ll try this time.”

  Ross thought it prudent not to mention Clemens had confessed to starting this uproar with a couple of editorials that had hit close to the truth. Scrivener probably already knew Clemens was responsible. And if he didn’t, Ross wouldn’t be the one to enlighten him.

  “It’s a shame you have to be pulled into all this,” the editor said. “You came to town to do a job and then move on. Now you’ve wound up being in the middle of a feud, a conspiracy, and a fraud.”

  “I chose to become involved. After all, it affects my job when the mines are concerned. I know the richer mines are producing well, and the whole Washoe district is one of the world’s richest mineral areas. Nevada will soon become a state in order for the Union to get its hands on the tons of silver it provides. But I have to report it as I find it, the bad with the good.”

  “All mining camps and boom towns are rough,” Scrivener said. “Hell, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I could be working for a paper back East and be dying of boredom.” He leaned back in his chair and propped a booted foot on the corner of the desk, pulling his pistol, and placing it atop a stack of yesterday’s edition. “Keep your Colt handy if you plan to deal yourself into this.” He dropped his foot to the floor, took up a pen, and flipped open the pewter inkstand on his desk. “All right, tell me again about your episode in the Blue Hole and where you found that ore, so I can take some notes.”

  Ross slept well that night, mostly from sheer fatigue. The next morning he had breakfast of a boiled egg, toast, and coffee before taking off at a brisk walk toward Gold Hill. He’d dealt himself into the feud, and he meant to meet this Frank Fossett so he’d know him on sight, then evaluate his potential for danger.

  He found the newspaper office in a row of unpretentious wooden buildings. At the front desk sat a young man in a white shirt, reading handwritten advertisements. “Can I help you?”