West of Washoe

by Tim Champlin

  “Mister Fossett, please.”

  “May I tell him who’s asking?”

  “I’ll introduce myself.”

  The man nodded, got up, and headed back through the long room toward the pressroom. Several men were working with composing sticks at a type case along one wall.

  A minute later a sandy-haired man of medium height strode toward the front desk. He carried his left arm in a sling.

  “Yes?” the man asked.

  “You’re the editor, Frank Fossett?”

  “That’s right. Who’re you?”

  “Can we step outside to talk? It’s private.”

  “Lead on,” Fossett said.

  Normal precaution not to let a stranger behind you, Ross thought. He noted the editor was wearing a cross-draw holster containing a long pistol. The two men stepped out into the morning sunshine and moved a few feet to one side of the door. No pedestrians were passing at the moment.

  “My name is Gilbert Ross, and I’m a government mine inspector,” Ross said with no preliminaries. “You’re editor of this paper and part owner of the Blue Hole Mine.” It was a confirming statement.

  “I’m editor of the Clarion,” he replied. “As to what I own, that’s my own private business.”

  “Not so private that word doesn’t get around,” Ross said. “And your business would be none of mine except for one thing. An attempt was made to kill me the other day when I was guided down into the mine to inspect it.”

  “All right, I have a small interest in the Blue Hole as a silent partner, but I know nothing about the running of that mine or what goes on there. And what do you mean by an attempt to kill you?”

  “I’m sure you already know, but I’ll tell you.” Ross briefly related the story.

  “That makes no sense.” Fossett shrugged. “But you seem to be none the worse for the experience. I’m sure it was just your imagination.”

  “I wish that’s all there was to it. As a silent partner, you see the reports of the amount of silver and gold being taken out of that mine?”

  “Oh, now and then. Usually a quarterly report. They’re doing quite well, actually. Glad I had a little money to invest.”

  “You’re a liar. That mine hasn’t taken out enough silver or gold to pay expenses in months.”

  “Not that it’s any of your affair, but they would have to shut down operations if that were the case.”

  “The owners are pushing worthless stock. Your paper runs editorials about the great value of the mine.”

  Fossett shrugged, his fair face beginning to redden.

  “You’re being paid to print lies.”

  “The Territorial Enterprise engages in character assassination as part of their lying agenda,” Fossett retorted. “So what? Why do you care? Go report to the government whatever you want to report, and leave me alone, or I’ll make you wish you had.” His hand slid across his belly toward the cross-draw holster partially covered by the crooked arm in the sling.

  Ross saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. “Keep your hand away from that gun.”

  Fossett’s right hand fell to his side.

  “I came here to tell you the Enterprise will report this week I was nearly killed in the mine, and I brought out some ore samples proving the mine was salted with flecks of gold. If you’re not aware of this, then you should be. If you are aware of it, you’d better get out now. And don’t be coming after Martin Scrivener, unless you want me to shoot you again.”

  “You shot me?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “I mean…you would shoot me?”

  “How’d you hurt your arm?” Ross asked.

  “Fell off m’ horse and dislocated my shoulder.”

  “I think under that bandage I’d find a bullet wound,” Ross challenged, not taking his gaze from Fossett.

  “Lay a hand on me, you son-of-a-bitch, and I’ll kill you, if it’s the last thing I ever do,” Fossett said through gritted teeth. His face was flushed as he backed away, flexing his right hand.

  Ross dropped his fingers to rest on the butt of his Colt. He started to say that he knew of the plot involving Tuttle and Ben Holladay, but refrained. Forewarned would be forearmed. This was enough warning for now. And he’d also thought better of mentioning Sam Clemens. If he could threaten this editor enough to get him to back off from any further conflict with Scrivener, then he’d inform Clemens, to forestall the young reporter’s desperate move of challenging Fossett to a duel. Ross had never thought of himself as particularly diplomatic, but the right word in the right place sometimes averted disaster.

  “Just keep a cool head, Mister Fossett,” Ross said in a soothing tone. “We could have it out right here and now, but what would that prove? One or both of us would be wounded or killed and nothing else would change. I’ll be gone from here in a week or two at most. Then you can go back to doing whatever you were doing. But as long as I’m here, you’d better keep your head down.”

  “Who in hell are you to threaten me?” The cords in Fossett’s neck were standing out. “You some kind of undercover lawman for the government?”

  “No. Like I told you, I’m a mine inspector. But I don’t like anyone trying to kill me, or my friends, while we’re trying to do our jobs. So take that as a threat or a warning or whatever you want. But if you try to harm Martin Scrivener, or anyone at the Enterprise, you’ll wind up filling one of those graves in the bone yard out yonder. Understand?”

  The editor looked hate at him, but made no move, nor did he answer.

  Ross pushed his advantage. “Remember…if anything happens to Martin Scrivener, or his paper, I’ll come looking for you. And it won’t be at night with a torch.” He backed away, hand still on the butt of his gun. Only when he was nearly a block away, did he turn his back and start his walk to Virginia City. The last view he had of Fossett, the editor was standing in the same place, staring in his direction. Ross didn’t know if he’d cowed the man, or if he’d only made things worse by aggravating the newsman’s hatred. But Ross was all for bringing this conflict out into the open. He was not much for skulking or subterfuge. He liked to know his enemies and confront them face to face.

  For a couple of days, that’s where things rested. With daily soaks in a hot tub of water at the Chinese bathhouse, Ross recovered from his soreness, wrote a few more pages on his report, and settled into the routine of Virginia City. But he did not relax his vigilance. He never let down his guard, not knowing if Fossett, or one of his men, was going to ambush him. In Virginia City, where gunfire and murder were daily occurrences, it would probably not even make the front pages of the newspapers if his body were found in the street or an alley some night. They’d hold an inquest, a coroner’s jury would rule his demise was brought about by bullets fired by “a person, or persons, unknown.” Martin Scrivener would probably claim his body and have him buried in the local cemetery. Then the editor would send a letter to his bosses in San Francisco or Washington. Except for his son and daughter, who might come to claim his remains for reburial, Gilbert Ross, within a few months, would be as forgotten by mankind as if he’d never existed. But, as he morosely pondered this over a beer one day in the Blind Mule, he reflected that his belief in an almighty, benevolent God was the only thing saving him from utter despair. Total anonymity…dust to dust…forever gone and forgotten. It was the fate of every human who’d ever lived, discounting those who’d done something to be written about in the history books. At least God knew and God would remember. An afterlife was his only hope, the only thing that kept him from throwing caution to the wind and going up against Fossett and his kind in a blind rage, and inviting a quick death.

  The unsigned article about Ross’s near miss in the Blue Hole Mine, along with his finding of the doctored ore had appeared in The Territorial Enterprise. In addition, Scrivener had written a scorching editorial about mine fraud in general and the way armed outlaws and white-collar thieves were allowed to do as they pleased in the town, preying on law-abiding cit
izens. For two days following these newspaper articles, there was no response. And Ross never let on to anyone that he’d paid a visit to Frank Fossett. Ross had taken to meeting Martin Scrivener at the paper and going to supper with him about 9:00 p.m. each evening—a time that was about midway through the editor’s working day. They were seated in Barnum’s Restaurant one night, having their usual late supper, when Clemens came in and approached their table.

  “Martin, I have some news.” He didn’t apologize for the interruption as he glanced at Ross. “You might as well hear this, too.”

  Scrivener pushed back an empty chair. “Have a seat and tell us.”

  “The Washoe Express is leaving tomorrow noon for San Francisco with an extra heavy load of gold ingots bound for the mint.”

  Scrivener chuckled. “That’s hardly news. Nearly every stage out of here is loaded with bullion of some kind. It’s public knowledge.”

  “This one is going to be held up in the mountains.”

  “Outlaws hit damned near every stage that travels west of Washoe. Get to the point.”

  “This is part of a plot to force Wells, Fargo to sell the Pioneer Line.”

  “Who’s plotting?”

  “Avery Tuttle, Frank Fossett, and Ben Holladay.”

  “Speculation?” Scrivener arched his eyebrows.

  The young reporter flushed. “No. But I can’t reveal my source.”

  “If you want me to believe it, you’d better tell me.”

  “Then it goes no further than the three of us.”

  Both men nodded their agreement. “You got my word,” Ross said.

  “OK.” Clemens glanced around as if to make sure no one else was within earshot. “Angeline Champeaux told me. She’d just finished a tryst with Avery Tuttle. She said Tuttle’s not usually a heavy drinker, but tonight he was celebrating the sale of a large block of Blue Hole Mine stock to some British investors, and had more champagne than he needed. She said he drank so much he couldn’t perform, so he made up for it by gabbing for an hour, and ended up paying her usual fee, anyway.”

  “I thought Angeline had more class than to mess with Avery Tuttle,” Scrivener mused softly.

  “Well,” Clemens went on, “she got to prying and he bragged about this plot and the fact that he and Fossett were essentially working for the great Ben Holladay. Holladay will get the money from the stock sale to finance his scheme. He hires the outlaws, and ships the ingots under another name. When the stages are robbed, Holladay splits with the outlaws. Then his surrogate shipper claims reimbursement from Wells, Fargo and returns most of it back to Holladay. If Wells, Fargo has to continue paying out for big losses, they’ll soon go bust and have to get rid of the staging part of their business. Holladay is waiting to snap it up at a bargain price.”

  Scrivener sat silently for a few moments. “We can’t risk getting Angeline killed by publishing this, ‘cause Tuttle would know where the information came from. Besides, we’d also warn the plotters.” He stroked his goatee and stared at the ceiling. “Wells, Fargo will have to know. We won’t tell them how we came by the information. They’ve probably already taken the precaution of hiring extra guards or outriders.”

  “If the hold-ups take place in the mountains, I assume the Virginia City police have no jurisdiction,” Ross said.

  “They wouldn’t be capable of stopping a group of determined road agents anyhow,” Clemens stated. “Angie told me Tuttle was putting a gunman inside the coach, posing as a passenger, to make sure the coach stopped and the robbery succeeded.”

  “Then I think there should be someone inside to nullify that gunman,” Ross said.

  “Yes, the Wells, Fargo office is only two doors from the Enterprise,” Scrivener said. “I’ll go down there and alert the agent tonight.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Ross said. “Been meaning to pay my son a visit in Sacramento. Tomorrow’s Washoe Express will get me there in good time.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ten minutes later, the two men were standing outside the Wells, Fargo office. Scrivener rapped loudly on the wooden door. It was a long minute before they heard the bolt being slid back. The agent edged open the door, gun in hand. “Oh, it’s you, Martin.” He stepped back. “Come in. What can I do for you this time of night?”

  “Got some news,” Scrivener said as the agent closed and bolted the door behind them.

  Ross saw they’d interrupted the agent in the act of transferring gold ingots from his safe into the four iron-strapped green boxes for the trip west. The two-inch by three-inch by one-inch gold ingots, each weighing a pound, were stamped with the current value of $325.

  “Go ahead and talk while I work,” the agent said.

  Scrivener told him about the scheme Clemens had relayed from Angeline.

  “Hell, everybody knows what we’re haulin’,” Agent Crawford said, wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s just a matter of being tough enough to hold onto it. You can assume that every stage in or out of here has treasure aboard.”

  Ross watched, fascinated, as the agent stacked these small bricks into the boxes, half filling each of the four chests. He finished by piling the boxes the rest of the way to the top with slightly larger silver ingots. Other small packages and personal valuables overflowed a nearby counter. A big canvas bag of mail leaned against the wall.

  “Well, we thought we’d just tip you off, anyhow,” Scrivener said, turning toward the door. “I reckon you and Wells, Fargo know how to run your business.”

  Crawford looked up. “Sorry, Martin. Didn’t mean to be short with you. I just had a tough day and it ain’t gonna be over for an hour or two yet.” He straightened up and stretched his back. “I appreciate the information, especially about the man inside the coach. Keep it to yourself, but we got extra outriders assigned to this run. We’re taking all the precautions we can.”

  Ross wondered why the company didn’t load up individual coaches with treasure only, and send these specials across the mountains with guards as the sole occupants. But that might be just an advertisement for what the coaches carried. Perhaps it was better to have regular passengers. Wells, Fargo very likely had thought this problem through and decided on the best method of operation. In any event, Ross thought, it was no business of his.

  “I need a round-trip ticket to Placerville on tomorrow’s stage,” Ross said.

  Crawford gave him a curious look, but silently stopped what he was doing and went to his desk. “You know,” he said, as if reading Ross’s thoughts, “with every coach in and out of here carrying valuables, coin or bullion, it wouldn’t be practical to run only treasure coaches and not haul revenue-producing passengers, too.”

  As Ross shelled out $45 in gold for the ticket, he could see the wisdom of that. He pocketed the ticket and glanced around the room, noting the light from the low-burning lamp reflecting dully off the gold bars. Ben Holladay wanted to get his hands on this lucrative Pioneer Line that Wells, Fargo had owned since the beginning of the rush, five years earlier. The Comstock Lode generated so much business the company now ran eight coaches daily to and from California. As spring and summer came on and mountain travel became easier, this number was likely to increase.

  “Thanks, gents,” Crawford said, as Ross unbolted the door and the two men stepped outside.

  “How about a nightcap?” Scrivener suggested when they were on the street. “On me.”

  “Sure.”

  They retreated to Barnum’s.

  “You know Frank Moody will be the driver on this run,” Scrivener said, when they were leaning on the bar.

  “Wells, Fargo’s top man,” Ross agreed.

  “Not only is he fearless, and a damned good shot, but he’s a natural on the box,” Scrivener continued. “He can turn a six-horse coach in the street with the team at full gallop, with every line apparently loose.”

  “You’d best have another gin.” Ross grinned at him. “Maybe then you’ll sound more convincing than one of your editorials.”


  “I’m sober as a temperance preacher,” Scrivener affirmed, owl-eyed. “God’s truth. If I hadn’t seen him do it, I wouldn’t believe it myself. He must have some mental communication with his horses. And the man knows every foot of the road between here and Placerville.”

  Ross nodded, feeling more confident about this run.

  Next morning, Ross basked in the warm sunshine as he stood, waiting for the stage to load. He pulled out his watch. Ten minutes until noon. His Navy Colt, freshly loaded and capped, rested in his cross-draw holster under the flap of his corduroy jacket. A spare cylinder, also loaded and capped, was in his right-hand pocket. In addition, he carried a .32 pistol inside the breast pocket of his coat. Manufactured in Brooklyn by the Daniel Moore Company, the new revolver had a five-inch barrel and held seven rimfire cartridges. His small grip contained an extra shirt, razor, toothbrush, and socks, as well as extra cartridges, powder, shot, and caps.

  But at the moment, his mind wasn’t on fighting or danger or robbery. It was on the fresh, soft May air and the warm sun. It was positively too nice a day for criminal activity. The benevolence of Nature mocked the whole idea.

  Ross lounged against a porch post on the boardwalk across from the Wells, Fargo office and watched the flurry of activity. He savored the moment. Even the likely prospect of going up against armed robbers didn’t dampen his mellow mood. He pushed back his hat to feel the sun on his face.

  Any onlooker wondering if this stage was carrying a lot of valuable bullion would’ve had their doubts erased by the sight of the cool-headed Frank Moody who was casually keeping an eye on the loading stage. He was the very picture of skill and confidence, wearing a gray, low-crowned hat, white linen duster over a brace of pistols, shiny black boots, flaring mustache, yellow calfskin gloves, and carrying his coiled whip.

  Ross studied the crowd, hoping to pick out the plant among the passengers. But he soon gave up the attempt. Many of the people milling in the street had come to see others off. This was going to be a crowded coach. At least ten or eleven passengers, he estimated. That meant one or two would be riding topside with the extra guard. Several hatboxes went into the rear boot, evidently the property of a couple of well-dressed lady passengers. He found himself wishing this would be an all-male soirée; he hated the idea of lead flying if women were in the way.