West of Washoe Read Online Free
Author: Tim Champlin
me a tour,” Ross said.
Scrivener was silent for several seconds. Finally he said: “You have any experience with that Navy Colt you’re packing?”
“Some. But only in self-defense.”
“Then I’ll trade you. I’ll take you on a thorough tour, if you’ll watch my back for the next week or so.”
Ross waited for an explanation.
“I got the editor of The Gold Hill Clarion all riled up. Mind you…I’ve had personal confrontations in the past…even been called out twice before…challenged to duels…when I was a young man inMississippi. And I managed to survive.” He paused. “But this man, Frank Fossett, is a no-good, lying, hoodwinking son-of-a-bitch, and I said so in print. He’s bought worthless mines, salted ’em, and sold ’em to suckers.” He never raised his soft voice as he denounced this enemy. “And I have it on good authority, he’s screwing the wife of one of his employees. Now that I’ve exposed him, he’s after my hide. And, knowing him, he won’t have the guts to come at me mano a mano. Besides being a liar and a cheat, he has all the markings of a cowardly back-shooter.”
Ross considered this proposal. He’d just hit town. Did he really want to become embroiled in someone else’s trouble? His first impression of Scrivener was positive—a man of integrity and courage. And the man had disposed of the knife-wielding drunk with no hesitation.
“I’m no gun hand, but I’ll do what I can,” Ross said.
Scrivener seemed to relax. “Couldn’t ask for any more than that.”
Chapter Three
Either Ross had quickly become used to the noise of Virginia City, or he was exhausted when he went to sleep. He didn’t wake in his hotel bed until 4:00 p.m. From beneath his slightly open second-story window came the low rumble of street noise—voices, laughter, hoof beats slopping through mud, squeaking of ungreased wagon wheels, the wheezy chords from a music box in a nearby saloon, a steam whistle in the distance. Underlying all other sounds was the monotonous, never-ceasing clanking and thumping of the stamp mills.
After he’d left Martin Scrivener this morning, he’d gone down the street to a tonsorial parlor for a haircut and shave. Following that came a soak in a hot soapy tub of water at a Chinese bathhouse while his clothes were washed. By the time he reached the six-story, brick International Hotel, checked in, and gotten to sleep, it was 9:30 a.m.
He swung his feet to the floor, stood up, and stretched mightily, his muscles stiff and sore from rattling around in the stage all night. Splashing water from the pitcher into the bedside bowl, he doused his face, raking wet hands through his hair. Wiping his face on a towel, he glanced outside through the wavy glass. The sun, dulled by a haze of high cloud, rested atop nearby Mount Davidson. He had the strangest feeling he’d wasted the day in bed. Normally a daytime person, he was now rested and ready for work, but had nothingto do, and a long night stretched before him. It would be tomorrow before Martin Scrivener, as he called himself, would introduce him to the mine superintendents so he could begin making surveys of their operations.
As he buttoned his shirt, he smiled at his reflection in the mirror. Much of his data gathering could be done above ground from ore samples, records and statistics, and interviews with mine owners. But any written records could be exaggerated, if not purposely falsified. The contents of ledgers had to be verified by first-hand evidence when he descended hundreds of feet into torch-lit tunnels, talked to miners, and examined the diggings himself. The miners made good wages, but worked under trying conditions—dependent on topside blowers to force breathable air into the shafts and drifts, where poison gas, cave-ins, explosions, scalding, and flooding were ever-present dangers. The steamy heat was so debilitating in some areas, the shirtless miners worked only a half hour at a stretch before
Scrivener was silent for several seconds. Finally he said: “You have any experience with that Navy Colt you’re packing?”
“Some. But only in self-defense.”
“Then I’ll trade you. I’ll take you on a thorough tour, if you’ll watch my back for the next week or so.”
Ross waited for an explanation.
“I got the editor of The Gold Hill Clarion all riled up. Mind you…I’ve had personal confrontations in the past…even been called out twice before…challenged to duels…when I was a young man inMississippi. And I managed to survive.” He paused. “But this man, Frank Fossett, is a no-good, lying, hoodwinking son-of-a-bitch, and I said so in print. He’s bought worthless mines, salted ’em, and sold ’em to suckers.” He never raised his soft voice as he denounced this enemy. “And I have it on good authority, he’s screwing the wife of one of his employees. Now that I’ve exposed him, he’s after my hide. And, knowing him, he won’t have the guts to come at me mano a mano. Besides being a liar and a cheat, he has all the markings of a cowardly back-shooter.”
Ross considered this proposal. He’d just hit town. Did he really want to become embroiled in someone else’s trouble? His first impression of Scrivener was positive—a man of integrity and courage. And the man had disposed of the knife-wielding drunk with no hesitation.
“I’m no gun hand, but I’ll do what I can,” Ross said.
Scrivener seemed to relax. “Couldn’t ask for any more than that.”
Chapter Three
Either Ross had quickly become used to the noise of Virginia City, or he was exhausted when he went to sleep. He didn’t wake in his hotel bed until 4:00 p.m. From beneath his slightly open second-story window came the low rumble of street noise—voices, laughter, hoof beats slopping through mud, squeaking of ungreased wagon wheels, the wheezy chords from a music box in a nearby saloon, a steam whistle in the distance. Underlying all other sounds was the monotonous, never-ceasing clanking and thumping of the stamp mills.
After he’d left Martin Scrivener this morning, he’d gone down the street to a tonsorial parlor for a haircut and shave. Following that came a soak in a hot soapy tub of water at a Chinese bathhouse while his clothes were washed. By the time he reached the six-story, brick International Hotel, checked in, and gotten to sleep, it was 9:30 a.m.
He swung his feet to the floor, stood up, and stretched mightily, his muscles stiff and sore from rattling around in the stage all night. Splashing water from the pitcher into the bedside bowl, he doused his face, raking wet hands through his hair. Wiping his face on a towel, he glanced outside through the wavy glass. The sun, dulled by a haze of high cloud, rested atop nearby Mount Davidson. He had the strangest feeling he’d wasted the day in bed. Normally a daytime person, he was now rested and ready for work, but had nothingto do, and a long night stretched before him. It would be tomorrow before Martin Scrivener, as he called himself, would introduce him to the mine superintendents so he could begin making surveys of their operations.
As he buttoned his shirt, he smiled at his reflection in the mirror. Much of his data gathering could be done above ground from ore samples, records and statistics, and interviews with mine owners. But any written records could be exaggerated, if not purposely falsified. The contents of ledgers had to be verified by first-hand evidence when he descended hundreds of feet into torch-lit tunnels, talked to miners, and examined the diggings himself. The miners made good wages, but worked under trying conditions—dependent on topside blowers to force breathable air into the shafts and drifts, where poison gas, cave-ins, explosions, scalding, and flooding were ever-present dangers. The steamy heat was so debilitating in some areas, the shirtless miners worked only a half hour at a stretch before
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