West of Washoe

by Tim Champlin

  “Somehow we’ve missed the Washoe zephyr since you’ve been in town,” Scrivener remarked as he and Ross stood at the front door of the Enterprise office and looked out at the chaos on C Street.

  “Zephyr?” Ross said. “Doesn’t that word mean a light, gentle breeze?”

  “Folks around here are given to irony.”

  “So I shouldn’t be surprised if I see a tin roof, or an iron stove or a mule go flying overhead.”

  “Exactly.”

  They stepped back into the doorway as an empty bucket went clattering and banging along the street. A man’s slouch hat flattened itself against the tall glass window of the Enterprise office, then was snatched away by a gust and blown under the wheels of a wagon.

  “A certain way the wind whips around usually deposits lots of hats in a gulch back of town. After a zephyr, the Digger Indians go down there and harvest as many as they can carry. Their kids show up on the streets wearing two or three at a time. Adults, too.”

  Everything that wasn’t indoors or securely fastened was being shifted to another location. The air was full of handbills ripped from walls and posts; playing cards fluttered like falling leaves. The clatter of loose objects punctuated the roar of wind moaning around corners of buildings.

  An alert pedestrian dived into the dirt street to avoid a green shutter sailing toward his head. The shutter missed him and struck a draft horse a glancing blow. The startled animal lunged sideways against his harness mate and the two of them, along with the wagon they were hauling, charged up onto the boardwalk, tearing down a support post. Part of the sidewalk roof collapsed, further spooking the horses that rushed back into the street, heedless of the shouts of the driver.

  “A lot of free entertainment,” Ross commented as the men retreated to the office to finish their work. The compositors were nearly ready for the corrected proofs.

  By the time the two men finished at 12:30 a.m., the wind was a howling fury. What had gone before was only a warm-up.

  They carried their hats in their hands as they left the office and started down C Street. There was no such thing as leaning into the wind, or bracing one’s feet as the rushing air pushed from behind. The gusts seemed to come from all directions at once, whipping dust into the eyes from a dried-up street. Fine sand stung Ross’s face; he held up his hat to shield himself from the buffeting. They made no effort to speak as they struggled toward the Blind Mule for a beer and a snack before heading to their boarding house.

  Walking head down, Ross suddenly bumped shoulders with a woman coming the other direction. “S’cuse me, ma’am!” He backed up and looked. “Angeline!” he said, recognizing the beautiful face deep inside the hood of her cape.

  “Hello, Gil. ‘Evening, Martin.”

  In spite of the hour, she showed no signs of fatigue, no shadows under the eyes. But then, Ross realized, she’d probably slept a good portion of the day. Like the editor, her work was afternoon and into the night.

  “Where’re you going?” Scrivener shouted above the roar of the wind.

  “Home to my hotel room!”

  “Would you like an escort?” the editor offered.

  “I don’t want to take you gentlemen away from anything important.”

  “We just finished work. Come on, we’ll walk with you.”

  They all turned and started back in the direction of the newspaper office, one of the men on either side of her.

  It was easy for Ross to forget what she did for a living. Where he came from, every female was treated as a lady by the men—if not by many of the disapproving women. In any case, he thought, it wasn’t his job to judge anyone. She’d been most valuable in helping prevent the loss of a big shipment of treasure, by alerting Clemens to the information Avery Tuttle had given her.

  All three of them had to stop suddenly and turn their backs to a strong gust. A canvas cover tore loose from a wagonload of furniture and went sailing over their heads.

  “This wind just wears me out!” Angeline shouted above the uproar.

  They were beyond the Enterprise office and less than a block from her hotel when they heard a muffled boom and felt the ground tremble.

  “They must be blasting pretty close to the surface!” Scrivener said.

  “That was the noise of thunder from that awning flapping!” Ross said, pointing to the whipping canvas above a store front.

  “No, I felt a concussion!” Scrivener said, stopping to look carefully around at the buildings on the street. He bumped Ross’s arm and pointed. They stood at the entrance to a narrow alleyway between two buildings. Ross saw smoke drifting from a broken window in the alley. Wind whipped the smoke away as soon as it appeared.

  He looked back at the editor. “The Wells, Fargo office!”

  “The shutters are closed in front and I can’t see any lamplight through the cracks!” Scrivener said, looking up and down the imposing two-story brick structure.

  “The office on the ground floor never closes!” Ross finished the thought.

  “Let’s take a look! Stay here, Angeline!” the editor said, nudging her up into the doorway of a closed store to shelter her from the worst of the wind.

  Not knowing what to expect, but preparing for the worst, Ross pulled his Navy Colt and followed the editor to the front door of the Wells, Fargo office. With the roar of the wind in their ears, they could hear nothing else as they paused by the door. Ross carefully grasped the knob and turned. It was locked.

  “Something wrong! Let’s try the back door!” Scrivener said.

  They eased down the narrow alley to the broken window that was still leaking a little smoke. Ross paused and slid one eye around the edge of the broken pane. Someone was moving inside, but the light was so dim from a lamp on the floor he couldn’t make out what was going on. Then his eyes became accustomed to the dimness and he could tell the two big doors of the six-foot safe were standing open. Ross ducked beneath the window and grabbed Scrivener’s coattail as the editor was making for the rear of the building. “Lamp’s on the floor, I can smell burnt powder and the safe’s open!” he said.

  “Did you see Agent Crawford?”

  “Too dark to make out faces, but there’s more than one man inside! Looks like somebody cleaning out the safe!”

  Hugging the wall, they moved a few feet farther. “Only two doors to this place and the front one is locked!” Scrivener said.

  “Must be hauling the stuff out the back way where there’s no light from the street!”

  The wind, deflecting between the buildings, whisked their words away. Scrivener put his mouth close to Ross’s ear. “Let’s take a look around back! Then send Angeline for the police!”

  The Washoe zephyr was blowing over trash barrels, banging shutters, and creating such a cacophony, nothing else could be heard. Flattened to the ground, they wiggled along the gravelly earth to where they could peek between a rain barrel and the corner of the building. A low light emanated from the open back door, illuminating a tall-sided freight wagon, the eight-mule team shuffling nervously in the windstorm. Heavy boxes and bags were being handed out and piled into the wagon. Ross recalled payday at the mines was next week. Crawford usually received shipments of gold and silver coin from San Francisco for the mine supervisors to pay the men in specie.

  Was this part of the Holladay operation to cripple Wells, Fargo, or some gang operating independently? Robbing the lone agent in the middle of the night was certainly less risky than stopping a stage on a mountain road and having to contend with armed guards, outriders, and possibly armed passengers. The only risk here was that the Wells, Fargo office was in the middle of town. But someone had wisely waited for the first good Washoe zephyr of the season to roar down the mountains and cover the noise of their blowing the safe.

  Ross touched the editor’s side to get his attention, then pointed back to the street. Scrivener nodded. Ross would go have Angeline summon the law.

  Just as he turned, Ross sensed movement behind him, then smelled a del
icious lilac fragrance as Angeline dropped to her knees beside him. “I had to see!” she said breathlessly.

  Before he could answer, Ross saw the outlines of two men silhouetted by lights from the street. They were cut off in the alley. A shuttered lantern suddenly flashed. “Hold it right there!”

  Ross grabbed Angeline, rolled to his left, and fired at the light. The lantern splattered and went out. Guns roared. Ross felt a bullet burn his left forearm. He fired twice more as fast as he could cock the hammer and pull the trigger. A man went down.

  He was vaguely aware of shouts from behind the building and Scrivener’s gun roaring beside him. He had a fleeting thought for the safety of Angeline, but it was too late for any of them now. Guns were flashing and bullets hitting wooden walls and throwing up spurts of gravel. A lead slug whined off a brick wall. In the uncertain light, Ross could only see bulky figures moving, hear shouts above the wind. He pushed Angeline down against the wall.

  Everything was happening at once, but it seemed time had slowed to a crawl, and each movement took a long time. He was on his hands and knees, firing, until his Colt was empty. He dropped it and reached under his coat for his smaller, .32 back-up pistol. Just as he yanked it from his inside pocket, something struck him on the side of the head. He saw an explosion of bright light and then—nothing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ross came close to consciousness—just close enough to feel himself being jostled and rolled on something hard. He was moving but, try as he might, he couldn’t break through the upper surface of wakefulness. As if in a dream, he couldn’t speak, nor could he move his arms and legs, and slipped back into the void.

  What seemed a long time later, he opened his eyes. He was lying on his back in the dark, and was no longer moving. He put a hand to the side of his head and it came away sticky. A knot the size of a walnut had swollen above his temple. He recalled wearing his hat when he’d been struck, so was lucky the hat had taken some of the force from the blow. His head ached.

  Where was he? He sniffed the faint odor of old grease. Without moving his head, he cut his eyes to one side and the other, which brought a sharp pain. He listened. No sound except the wind rattling and banging loose metal somewhere close. He tried rolling onto his side. Waves of nausea swept over him. He lay face down on the smooth, packed dirt that smelled of oil and manure.

  He blinked a few times, took a deep breath, and pushed himself to a sitting position. Then he saw a slight movement nearby. Indirect, wavering candlelight revealed two bound figures a few feet away. He crawled closer and saw Martin Scrivener and Angeline Champeaux, both bound with arms at their sides, and gagged. He was relieved they were alive. If they’d been killed, there would have been no need to tie them. Why hadn’t he been bound? Probably because he was unconscious. Had they been dumped here? Wherever here was. He rubbed a stinging burn on his left forearm. In the dim light he could see a long cut, but didn’t recall being shot. But he didn’t recall much of anything about that gun battle.

  He worked the gags out of their mouths.

  “Thank God,” Scrivener breathed. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake. See to Angeline.”

  He began to loosen her ropes.

  They rubbed their stiffened limbs until circulation was restored and they could stand.

  Ross felt muzzy, and couldn’t seem to get his thoughts straight. “Where are we?”

  With Angeline leaning on his arm, Scrivener walked stiffly to the open door and looked out.

  Ross followed. “Appears we’re in a building housing the hoisting works of a mine,” he said. “You know this place, Martin?”

  “No.”

  Ross pulled a bandanna from his pocket and held it gingerly to the side of his head. “Are either of you hurt?”

  “I don’t believe I am,” she answered, her voice shaking.

  “No damage here,” Scrivener said. “But I can’t imagine why, with all that lead flying.”

  “I think I hit one,” Ross said, speaking low and looking around. “And I’m pretty sure you did, too.”

  “Did they just leave us here?” Angeline asked.

  “If we’re lucky, they did,” Scrivener said.

  “Maybe they knew we couldn’t see well enough to recognize anyone.”

  “Only reason we’re still alive.”

  “But how could they be sure?”

  “Someone on the street must have heard all that shooting and yelling,” Scrivener said. “Probably went for the law. By now they’ve likely found the Wells, Fargo office looted.”

  “What time is it, anyway?” Ross asked.

  Scrivener pulled his pocket watch and held it close to his eyes. “Three thirty-five.”

  “At least two hours until daylight,” Ross said. “If you can walk, let’s get out of here and see if we can find our way back to town. Gold Hill or Virginia City must be close by.”

  “Nice of them to leave us a candle,” Angelina said, pulling the thick candle loose from the melted wax where it was stuck near a windlass. There was no horse or mule to run the windlass. The whole place gave off the stale air of abandonment.

  “I wouldn’t be for taking that candle anywhere just yet, missy,” a strange voice said from the shadows beyond the platform.

  Angeline jumped with a little cry, nearly dropping the candle. A chill ran up Ross’s back to the base of his neck and he automatically reached for his Colt, which wasn’t there. His heart began to pound and, with it, his head. A hand inside his coat confirmed that his .32 was gone as well.

  He heard the ratcheting of a lever-action rifle being cocked. A man stepped into the candlelight. The illumination showed his face beneath the hat brim, and it was nobody Ross knew. If either of the others recognized him, they said nothing. The man was in need of a shave, a bath, and a square meal was Ross’s quick assessment. A hireling, no doubt.

  A silence ensued, during which Ross felt his head throbbing. The cut had ceased to bleed, but he felt sure the knot on his head was large enough to be seen through his hair.

  “We’ll be heading back to town,” Scrivener said, apparently to break the tension of the silence as much as anything.

  “No. My orders are to hold you here until the others come back.” He stepped to the empty door frame and looked out into the darkness.

  “If you haven’t already collected your share, what makes you think they’re coming back?” Ross asked, taking a chance he might guess right.

  “I’ve been paid,” the man said shortly.

  Angeline dripped hot wax on the hard packed earth and stuck the candle in it. Lacking any chairs or boxes to sit on, all three sat down on the ground to wait. The man with the rifle yawned and leaned against the windlass, looking bored and sleepy. He didn’t seem to mind if they talked among themselves. Besides, the rattling of the tin building hid their words from him.

  “I think this might be the Dead Broke Mine,” Scrivener said. “It’s a played-out mine the owners abandoned a few months back.”

  “Appropriate name,” Ross said.

  “Actually there’s probably rich ore under all the mountains in this vicinity, but the owners just ran out of money before they tapped into a ledge, so they had to give it up when they couldn’t find investors.”

  An endless thirty minutes crawled by. The wind buffeted the hoisting works housing, rattling the loose tin siding. It created such a din that, at first, Ross didn’t hear the approaching hoof beats. A horse snorted, and the next second three men entered on foot, single file through the empty doorway. Frank Fossett led the parade, his arm still wrapped, but out of the sling. Then came blond, rosy-cheeked Avery Tuttle. He was followed by a third man—a lean stranger who moved with an easy, cat-like grace, and stationed himself to one side, arms folded, looking bored. The only person missing was Ben Holladay. But the big boss would never dirty his hands on the small details of his grand scheme, although he must have known what was going on. He was the brains, the power, and the money behind it all.

 
; “We brought you a spare horse,” Tuttle said to the guard with the rifle. “Git!”

  The guard didn’t need a second invitation. He hustled out the door into the night and Ross heard him ride away.

  Tuttle opened two of the shutters on the lantern he carried, and turned up the wick. Wherever they were, apparently he was not afraid of a light brighter than a candle being seen from the outside.

  Ross and Scrivener had been disarmed. Whatever was about to happen, Ross would prefer firearms were involved, rather than the mine they were standing atop of. Just then a big, bearded man appeared in the doorway and moved forward into the light.

  “Ah, Mister Holladay,” Tuttle said in a deferential tone.

  “I’ll get to the point,” Holladay said, taking charge. “We’ll have a little trial right here.” He removed his stylish gray Stetson and stepped forward, still wearing his long riding duster. A diamond ring on his little finger sparkled in the lantern light. “You’ve been accused by the prosecuting attorney of attempting to wreck our operation tonight when you came on the scene at the wrong time. It was fortunate you fell into our hands, although you did shoot and wound three of my men. We couldn’t just kill you and leave your bodies in that alley. That would have created too much of a stir, even in a town that has at least one or two dead men for breakfast every day, including Sunday.” He paused to smile at his own wit. “Mister Gilbert Ross, government mine inspector, stands accused of trying to ruin the reputation of the Blue Hole Mine and discredit me, the owner. Not only that, but he shot and killed two of my men while they were attempting to remove treasure from a Wells, Fargo stagecoach. Not satisfied with this shooting, he went to Gold Hill and threatened Frank Fossett with bodily harm.” He turned to Scrivener. “Martin McNulty, also known as the Sierra Scrivener, has been a thorn in my side for some time now, writing scurrilous editorials, trying to blacken Mister Fossett’s reputation. And now one or both of you somehow convinced the miners’ union to quit the Blue Hole…in effect, putting that mine out of business, and stealing money from us.” He paused and smiled like a cat that has finally captured an elusive mouse. “And last, but far from least, my dear Angeline Champeaux…what can I say about you? You and Mister Tuttle were intimate. Regardless of the fact you were more interested in his money than in him, he trusted you. What passes between a man and his mistress should remain sacrosanct, information as privileged as that between a lawyer and his client…”