West of Washoe by Tim Champlin Read Free Book Online Page B

“I’m sixty dollars richer than I should be after a run-in with one of your hold-up men last night between here and Gold Hill.” He related the incident of holding up his hands, clutching the gold coins.
    “By God, I’d write up a short piece about that, but I’m afraid it’d just alert the next robber to the trick.”
    “Where you from, Sam?”
    “Missouri. Been at the paper sixteen months. Couldn’t seem to make a living mining.”
    “What made you come West?”
    To Ross, the young man appeared to be on the underside of thirty.
    “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 wasa 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