West of Washoe Page 5

  “The war shut down commercial river traffic on the Mississippi, and ended my job piloting. Then my brother Orion was given a political appointment as secretary of the territorial government, and I came along as his unpaid assistant.” He paused and proffered a cigar. Ross declined with a shake of his head. Clemens lighted one himself, his head disappearing behind a cloud of white smoke.

  “Whew!” Ross fanned the air. “What is that?”

  “A Wheeling long nine,” Clemens replied, holding the cigar between thumb and forefinger and looking fondly at it. “Got acquainted with them when I was a cub pilot on the river. They have one virtue which recommends them above all other cigars.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re cheap.”

  “I see,” Ross said, sliding his chair back into clearer air.

  “They’re also deadly up to thirty paces.”

  “That’s for sure. Probably kept away all the mosquitoes on the river, too.”

  “You bet.” He took another puff and squinted at Ross through swirling smoke. “What’s your story?”

  Ross shrugged. “Been around the world, and wrote a few travel books. Studied geology. Served a spell as a correspondent for Harper’s Weekly. Widower now. Grown kids. Presently working for the government as a mine inspector.”

  “Ever take a flyer in mining stock yourself?”

  Ross shook his head. “Too much of a gamble for me, even if the stock is good when you buy it. Mother Nature is inconsistent with her gifts. I do keep my eyes open for certain friends and give them tips on good-looking mines.”

  “When I first came out here, I tried staking a claim and digging up the silver and gold myself. Found out that’s more work than working, and damned little to show for it. Sold out for a tuppence and went to trading stock. Easier than working a shovel, but a lot riskier. Got fleeced. Finally took a job with the paper for wages, and went back to eating regular,” he finished in a barely discernible drawl. His eyes twinkled with good humor as he puffed on his cigar. “Why, just last night I was offered a hundred running feet of the Scandalous Wretch at a dollar a foot. Not an hour later another friend tried to unload his two thousand shares of Bobtail Horse and Root Hog or Die for only ten cents a share.”

  “Oh?”

  “They swore these were all producing mines over near Devil’s Gate.”

  “Did you bite?”

  “If I’d been a newcomer, I might’ve been tempted. As it was, I knew all three of those mines. They don’t produce enough to pay the assessment. Pick and shovel operations, in spite of the fancy printing on the stock certificates. If they ever squeeze out as much as fifty cents’ worth of silver to the acre, then I’m the next governor.” He chuckled and signaled the waiter across the crowded room, then turned back to Ross. “Mind if I ask whether you’re a single-ledge man or a multiple-ledge man?” He looked at Ross with narrowed eyes through the curling cigar smoke like a Pharisee about to trap Jesus with a loaded question.

  But Ross was ahead of him. “I’m not quite the tenderfoot you take me for, Sam. If I say all the mines around here are but individual parts of a single ledge of rich ore, you’ll report it in the paper and I’ll be run out of town. The livelihood of every storekeeper, lawyer, and small mine owner depends on there being many ledges that underlie each other, criss-cross and go here, there, and yon in multiple directions.”

  Clemens laughed aloud. “You’re not a geologist, then?”

  “Closest thing to it. But even professors of geology or mining engineers have no way of knowing. Not even a man with a degree in geology could have the expertise to know whether it’s one ledge or many, since the whole thing is buried hundreds of feet in the earth and protrudes through the surface only here and there. When I was here in Eighteen Sixty, when this place had just started to boom, I drew a map of what I thought the ledges looked like and where they ran. It resembled a handful of straw somebody’d thrown down on a board and varnished in place. But some fools took it for gospel, instead of my educated guess. Regardless of what I may think, personally I’m a multiple-ledges man in public.” He pushed back his chair and crossed his legs, as the waiter arrived to take their order. They settled on the special—pork and beans, onions, cabbage, bacon, and sourdough bread.

  “The multiple-ledges theory is what keeps legions of lawyers in business,” Clemens continued. “Nearly everybody on the Comstock is at dagger points in some kind of litigation over intersecting claims, and which ones have the right to follow which veins, and so on and on.”

  Ross nodded. “The lawyers are apparently the ones making all the real money in this town.”

  “The lawyers and the outlaws,” Clemens added. “Or did I just repeat myself?”

  “Are the legal judgments fair?”

  “When a learned decision is handed down against a claimant, that’s usually not the end of it. The case is then settled out of court as often as not. The loser shoots the winner.”

  “Then why don’t they eliminate the middle man and go to gun play right off?”

  “The territory would never become a state if its citizens ignored the law.”

  “So the judges’ rulings are basically fair, but not respected?”

  “We’ve got the most upright judges in the country down at Carson City. They’re only considered corrupt if they take bribes from both sides at the same time.”

  “Couldn’t ask for anything fairer than that,” Ross said, suppressing a grin. “Are you working on a story today?”

  “Sure am. Nothing big, but at least I don’t have to invent something. A widow woman who lives a half mile from our cabin knocked the bottom out of her well.”

  “Sounds like the beginning of a tall tale.”

  “For once it’s not. I walked over there to check it myself. Her well’s about thirty feet deep. She went out and dropped a wooden bucket down to get some water. Bucket hit the water, and it was like somebody pulled a plug. The next minute, she had a bucket dangling on a rope with nothing below it. Turns out the Mexican Hat Mine workers, without knowing it, had tunneled right under her well. The water had gradually soaked through the thin layer of soil separating them. When she dropped the bucket, the concussion of it hitting the water broke right through into the tunnel.”

  “Only on the Comstock…”

  “I expect the whole town to collapse and slide down into the mines in the next few years.”

  “The robbers will have the place cleaned out by then,” Ross said. “Does Virginia City have a police force?”

  “The territorial government provides for one. But, as you can see, a handful of policemen have all the chance of chipmunks in a forest fire. Reckon that’s why every man in town carries a gun to settle his own disputes.” He frowned. “In my case, that may not be such a good idea.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m the one mainly responsible for Martin Scrivener’s getting into it with Frank Fossett, editor of The Gold Hill Clarion.”

  “You?”

  Clemens nodded. “I wrote two or three pieces about Fossett and repeated some rumors I’d heard about his low-down shenanigans of salting mines, and adultery, and possibly being the brains behind some stage hold-ups. Thought it’d be fun to hear him howl and call us a few names in print. Turned out most of my jabs hit a sore spot. Fossett didn’t deny what I’d written. Guess he figured I had some kind of proof to back up what I said. He blew up and threatened Martin, thinking he was the one who’d exposed him.”

  “Why didn’t he go after you?”

  “My pieces didn’t have a byline.”

  “I see.”

  “I started this while Martin was out of town for a week. Thought it might boost circulation.” He shook his head. “It did more than that. Martin came back and heard all the ruckus. When he realized Fossett really was the whited sepulcher I’d made him out to be, Martin backed me with some editorials of his own. So, now Fossett’s after him. But I can’t stand by and let that happen. Martin Scrivener’s
too good a man to finish something I started.”

  “What can you do about it?”

  Clemens didn’t answer while the waiter set their food on the table.

  “As you know, Fossett or one of his men tried to burn down the Enterprise,” Clemens continued. “I have to stop him before he does something even more desperate. The only thing I can think to do is own up to writing those pieces, and challenge him to a duel.”

  “Isn’t there a law against dueling in this territory?”

  “Yep. The law would have to clamp down on any crime as public as that. We’d both be arrested and jailed.”

  “You wouldn’t have to advertise the time and place,” Ross said.

  “Quit trying to get me killed,” Clemens said. “You don’t think I actually want to fight a duel with deadly weapons, do you? I’d have to leak it to the press or put out a few broadsides with Fossett’s name on them. Weak as they are, the police will have to be given a chance to prevent it.” He spooned up a bite of pork and beans. “I may carry this six-shot Navy Colt, but if I were to fire it at the bartender over there, I’d just as likely fetch the bouncer by the door.”

  “Not a marksman, then?”

  Clemens shook his head. “Especially when my nerves are playing hobs with my gun hand.”

  Ross wiped up some juice with a crust of bread and chewed thoughtfully.

  “You don’t want to go to jail, either. Why don’t you have Fossett arrested for various and sundry crimes?”

  “I have no proof.”

  “You’re in a bind.”

  “To take Fossett’s mind off Scrivener, I’ll own up to the accusations, challenge him to a duel, and then make myself scarce for a while until things settle down.”

  “That won’t do much for your reputation.”

  “As the Bible says…‘better a live mouse than a dead lion’…or something to that effect.”

  “I wouldn’t be in your shoes for a controlling interest in the Comstock.”

  Chapter Six

  After lunch they parted, Clemens heading for the newspaper office and Ross starting up the street to find a men’s clothing store, or a likely-looking mercantile to replace the coat he’d ruined. A half block ahead, seated on the edge of the boardwalk and leaning against a post, was a drunk—or a beggar. Ross slowed his pace for a look. Although beggars were few in this town, drunks were as common as hoof prints. What differed about this one was the hand-lettered sign he held propped in his lap. It read:

  AVERY TUTTLE,

  Owner of the Blue Hole Mine

  A Robber, Liar, Murderer

  Takes silver for the lives of miners

  Most pedestrians walked around the man’s legs sprawled out in the sidewalk. Others gave him only a curious glance as they passed. One or two stopped to read the sign as Ross came up. The man was emaciated, obviously drunk or sick, with a week’s worth of whiskers, his eyes wearing a watery, glazed look that focused on nothing. As Ross watched, the man pulled a bottle from behind the sign and took a swig. From a few feet away, the square-faced bottle and label looked like some kind of patent medicine.

  Ross was curious. If there was something about the Blue Hole Mine he should know, he meant to find out what it was. He hunkered down. “Hey mister, what’s this about Avery Tuttle and his mine?”

  The man turned in his direction and attempted to focus. His effort was interrupted by a sudden spasm of dry coughing. He finally stopped, and took a deep breath, but seemed even weaker than before.

  “What about the Blue Hole?” Ross repeated.

  “It’ll kill ya,” the man replied, struggling for enough breath to speak.

  “Poison gas in the mine? No canaries there to warn you?” Ross prompted.

  “No masks, no air, just rock dust,” the man gasped.

  “How about if I buy you something to eat?” Ross said. “You hungry?”

  The man nodded weakly.

  Ross took him around the shoulders and under the arms and helped him up. The stoppered bottle clattered to the boards. Ross put it in his pocket.

  “My sign…” The man reached back and clutched it as Ross aided him to the door of the first saloon he saw. Just inside, the man sagged into a chair at an empty table. Ross sat next to him, propping the sign against the wall.

  “This here is one o’ them two-bit saloons,” the man objected.

  “No matter. I’m paying,” Ross said.

  The so-called two-bit saloons were on the uphill side of the street and fancied themselves as higher class than the one-bit saloons below. They sported fancier fixtures, mirrors, better selection of liquors and wines, and a varied menu. Not only did they charge two bits a drink, but everything else was proportionally higher, from cigars to steaks. As a practical matter, a man couldn’t pay just 12 1/2¢ for a drink in the lower-priced saloons since 1/2¢ coppers had long since gone out of circulation, so bartenders habitually returned as change for a quarter only a 10¢ piece or two silver half-dimes, making them one-bit saloons in name only.

  Ross ordered the man a bowl of beef stew and a pint of beer.

  “What’s your name, mister?” Ross asked when the waiter had gone.

  “Jacob Sturm,” the man replied, trying to focus. His breath reeked of alcohol. Ross pulled out the half full, square-faced bottle and gently shook it, watching the deep amber contents swirl inside the clear glass. He read the yellow label. Madam Turney’s Mountain Elixir was printed in flowing, ornate script across the top. In smaller lettering below, it professed to be a cure for corns, erysipelas, as well as dyspepsia, the grippe, flatulent colic, and botts. It prevented liver and heart ailments, and would relieve symptoms of mountain fever, colds, congestion, asthma, and shortness of breath. But Ross almost laughed aloud when he read the last line. For botts, it has no equal.

  “That’s m’ medicine…for my lungs,” Sturm said breathlessly.

  Ross twisted out the cork and took a tentative sniff. “Holy shit!” He jerked back, eyes watering. “Guaranteed to cure or kill,” he agreed.

  “Makes me feel better,” Sturm muttered.

  “I can believe that.” Ross corked the bottle and set it on the table. This Sturm was stronger than he appeared if he could swig Madam Turney’s Elixir and stay upright.

  “What’s this about the Blue Hole Mine?” Ross again asked.

  “Avery Tuttle…a cruel man.”

  “He’s the owner?”

  “Yeah. Rock dust and gas ate up my lungs working at the Blue Hole.”

  “All the mines are dangerous like that.”

  Sturm shook his head. “Tuttle cuts corners. Men killed when rotten ropes break on the hoist. Foreman orders miners into drifts…where they’re scalded by hot steam. Forces us to work in spaces where gas is leaking…”—he paused to gasp for breath—“beyond the reach of air blowers.”

  The waiter arrived with the stew and beer, took a silver dollar from Ross, and left.

  Sturm was convulsed with a dry, hacking cough before he could begin eating. “I’m a walking dead man,” he whispered as he took up his spoon.

  For several seconds Ross was silent. Mine owners, in general, were not humanitarians. They would pay the cheapest wage they could, work the men as hard as possible, cut their overhead to a minimum, rake in big profits, and undercut or steal their neighbor’s rich vein of ore if they got half a chance. Power, greed, and wealth brought out the worst in human nature. Yet, there were exceptions. He’d heard the Irish immigrant, John Mackay, one of the richest men on the Comstock, was the antithesis of most others in his honesty, integrity, and care for friends and employees. He was liked and admired by nearly everyone—a notable quality among the newly wealthy mine owners who’d come up from nothing. The miners had organized into a strong union to protect themselves from men like Avery Tuttle.

  “You a union member?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Didn’t the union threaten to strike if the miners weren’t paid four dollars a day?”

  “That’s right
,” Sturm said, looking up with bleary eyes. “And we got it, too.”

  “Seems like that kind of money would help make up for the bad working conditions.”

  Sturm looked at him suspiciously. “You part of management?”

  “No. Just interested in your story. Go on.”

  “We took to tying bandannas over nose and mouth to filter the air. But it was too damned hot down there to keep those things on very long. Heat one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty. We stripped down to our shorts. Union agreed with Tuttle…we’d work a half hour, then rest for a half hour…drink pints of water, chew on ice kept in barrels near the blower tubes. Can’t work long in that kind of heat…” He paused and took three rattling breaths. “But Tuttle kept his foreman on our backs…wouldn’t keep to that agreement. Waited till somebody passed out before he’d call for rest. And usually no ice sent down from up top.”

  “Why didn’t you quit and go somewhere else?”

  “I was going to…but found out by then I was sick…couldn’t get hired in no other mine.” His eyes seemed to be focusing better as the food began to have a restorative effect, offsetting Madam Turney’s Elixir.

  Sturm ate another spoonful and washed it down with a swallow of beer. “Funny thing is…the harder the foreman pushed us, the less good ore we took outta there.”

  “How could you tell until it was milled and smelted?”

  Sturm looked at him with disdain. “Mister, I been a miner for a lot of years. I know rich ore on sight…by color, by feel. What we took out of there…the past few months was poor-grade stuff. Have to move a lot of rock and clay to get any good metal outta that.”

  “I reckon Tuttle was desperate, then, to keep cutting back on overhead expenses to see if he could strike something better.” It seemed entirely logical to Ross that a hard, ruthless mine owner would act that way. Yet he could understand Sturm’s complaints as well. The man had taken a chance, been well paid to do a dangerous job, and had ruined his health as a result.

  Sturm finished his food and drained the beer.

  “Can I help you home?” Ross offered. This man was in no shape to be picketing on the street. The next person might take offense at his sign. “Where do you live?”