Quincannon

Chapter 5

Quincannon moved a step closer to the wagon. The crowd of onlookers had grown; an excited buzzing ran among the men, like the sound of disturbed bees.

The wagon driver said, “Maybe it was robbery. Outlaws all over these mountains, you know that.”

Marshal McClew made a snorting noise. “Whistling Dixon never carried more than a dollar in his life, and that’s a fact.”

“Outlaws don’t know it.”

“Were you an outlaw, Henry, would you pick him as a target?” McClew ran a thoughtful finger over each of his mustaches. “Found him in Slaughterhouse Gulch, you said. Whereabouts?”

“By that stand of willows where the creek branch runs through. I wouldn’t have seen him, back under the trees, except the crows was at him.”

“Didn’t get his eyes, at least. Sign of his horse?”

“No.”

“Anybody else around?”

“Didn’t see anybody.”

McClew lifted the dead man’s arm, let it fall again limply. “Rigor mortis has come and gone,” he said. “Been dead a while. Since early last night sometime.”

“Bushwhacked, probably. Has to be outlaws, Marshal.”

“Maybe,” McClew said. “Maybe.”

“Well, what you want done with the body?”

“Take it up to Turnbuckle’s. I’ll go with you. Then we’ll notify Doc Petersen, and you can run me out to Slaughterhouse Gulch.”

“Me? Hell, I’m already late for work at the livery…”

“Can’t be helped. I need you to show me just where you found him.”

The driver, Henry, climbed grumbling to the wagon seat. McClew started around to the other side, seemed to notice the gathering crowd for the first time, and stopped. “You men — go on about your business. This ain’t a public meetingplace. Disperse. Move along!”

Whether he was liked or not, his words carried weight in Silver City: the crowd immediately began to break up. McClew took his place next to Henry, who snapped the reins and brought his team around and out onto Washington Street. As the wagon rattled away uphill, Quincannon asked one of the men walking near him, “Would Turnbuckle’s be an undertaking parlor?”

“It would. Opposite the brewery, two blocks up.”

Quincannon walked half a block in that direction, until he came to a saloon. Inside at the plank bar he spent five minutes with a shot of whiskey, timing it by the gold stemwinder his father had given him on his twenty-first birthday. Then he went out again and climbed toward the barnlike building that housed Silver’s own brewery, marked by a blackened brick chimney belching smoke.

Opposite the brewery was a squat building with a facade of white-painted fretwork and a sign that read: N.R. TURNBUCKLE, UNDERTAKER AND CASKET MAKER. The street in front was empty; so was the rutted and weed-choked alleyway that ran alongside. There was no sign of Henry’s light spring wagon.

Quincannon ran hard across the street to the undertaking parlor, a ploy to quicken his breathing, and opened the front door to the melody of a little bell. Inside was a hallway and, to one side, a large room with rows of benches and a bier at one end — the place where funeral services were held. A door at the rear of the hall opened momentarily and a small, dapper, balding man emerged and came toward him. Except for his eyes, the man’s face was expressionless and might have been molded of soft white clay. The eyes were the saddest Quincannon had ever seen.

“Yes, sir. May I be of service?”

Panting a little, putting gravity and shock into his voice, Quincannon said, “Marshal McClew and Henry, from the livery, just brought you a dead man. Whistling Dixon, by name.”

“Why… yes, they did. How did you know — ?”

“I happened to be near the jail… a tragedy, a dreadful tragedy. My name is Andrew Lyons, from San Francisco. You’re Mr. Turnbuckle?”

“Yes, I am. But I don’t — ”

“Whistling Dixon was a close friend of my father’s,” Quincannon said, “and a second father to me when I was a boy growing up along the Rogue River. I hadn’t seen him in, oh, it must be fifteen years. My business brought me to Silver City just last night — I am an agent for Dr. Wallmann’s Nerve and Brain Salts, you see — and as I knew Mr. Dixon lived in this area, it was my hope we could renew our friendship after so many years. And now this… this tragedy… it’s most distressing.”

Turnbuckle blinked his sad eyes, absorbing what Quincannon had said. Then he murmured, “Of course, Mr. Lyons. A terrible shock for you, I’m sure.”

“Terrible,” Quincannon repeated. “I wonder… I know it’s most irregular, but would it be possible for me to see him briefly?”

“See him? Well, I don’t — ”

“I find it so hard to believe he’s dead, murdered. If I could see him for just a minute…”

“The body is not pleasant to look at, Mr. Lyons. He was shot, you know, and his face — ”

“Violent death has little effect on me,” Quincannon said. “I was raised in Indian country, as I said.”

Turnbuckle seemed to be weakening. But he said, “The coroner, Dr. Petersen, will be here soon.”

“I’ll leave as soon as he arrives. A minute with my poor, murdered friend. That is not too much to ask, is it, Mr. Turnbuckle? Surely?”

“Well, I… no, I suppose it isn’t…”

Quincannon stepped forward and clasped the undertaker’s hand, saying, “Thank you, sir, thank you so much,” and at the same time turning him so that they were both moving down the hallway.

Turnbuckle led him to the door at the rear, through it into his workroom. Embalming machinery gleamed in the light from two lamps; so did the undertaker’s needles and razors and other tools of his trade, shut away inside glass-fronted cabinets. The unpleasant chemical smell of formaldehyde was strong in the room. Whistling Dixon’s corpse lay on a slab in its center, uncovered and face up, the dead eyes staring at eternity.

“Yes,” Quincannon said, “yes, it is poor Mr. Dixon.”

“Did you doubt it?”

“No, no. I simply find it difficult to believe that such a fine man has been killed in such a terrible fashion. He never carried more than a dollar on his person at any time. Did you know that, Mr. Turnbuckle?”

“I’m afraid I did not have the pleasure of knowing Mr. Dixon.”

“Too bad. You would have admired him, just as I did. May I be alone with him for a minute?”

Turnbuckle blinked. “Alone?”

“If you wouldn’t mind. I’ll soon be leaving Silver City; I may not be here when you’ve made him ready for burial. I could pay my respects here and now.”

“Well, this is most irregular — ”

“I realize that. Most irregular. But the circumstances, Mr. Turnbuckle, the circumstances… well, you understand.”

“Yes,” Turnbuckle said uncertainly, “of course.”

“A minute is all I ask. No longer.”

“Very well, then. A minute, Mr. Lyons, no more.”

The undertaker went to the door, glanced back at Quincannon, seemed to shake his head, and went out. Quincannon was already at the slab when the door clicked shut. Quickly he began to search the dead man’s clothing.

The shirt pocket contained a nearly empty sack of Bull Durham, papers, and a handful of lucifers. One pocket of a faded and patched Levi jacket was empty; the other yielded a small chunk of ore that Quincannon identified as pyragyrite — the kind of silver ore that contained feldspar, mica flecks, and the reddish, almost crystalline metal known as ruby silver. Nothing unusual in a man, even a cowhand, carrying silver ore in these mountains, he thought; and from what he had learned last night Dixon had done some prospecting in his free time. He returned the chunk to the jacket and went through the pockets of a pair of equally faded and patched Levi’s.

A clasp knife with a chipped handle. A silver half eagle that Quincannon held up to catch the lamplight, just long enough to determine that it was not a counterfeit. And a brand-new gold pocket watch, an expensive-looking Elgin with an elaborately scrolled hunting case that depicted a railroading scene. Quincannon flipped open the dustcover, read what was etched on the casing inside.

Jason Elder — 1893.

From the alleyway outside, just as he closed the cover, he heard the sound of a horse and buggy approaching. The Elgin watch went into the pocket of his frock coat, and not a moment too soon: the door to the hallway opened and Turnbuckle came hurrying in.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lyons,” the undertaker said, “but you’ll have to leave now. Dr. Petersen is here.”

Quincannon sighed. “Of course. I do appreciate your kindness.”

“Yes. Now if you will just come with me…”

When they reached the front entrance Quincannon said, “I wonder, Mr. Turnbuckle, if you would allow me to make a small contribution to the burial fund.”

Someone had begun to rap on the alley door to the workroom. But Turnbuckle paid no attention to that. His face showed animation again; his ears seemed to prick up like a dog’s. “Well,” he said, “well, that is hardly necessary, Mr. Lyons. But if you prefer it…”

“Oh, I do.” Quincannon took a five-dollar note from his billfold and handed it to the undertaker. “You will see to it that he has a nice casket, won’t you?”

“Oh, indeed. Indeed I will.”

Quincannon left Turnbuckle clutching the greenback. It gave him a moment of small, wry amusement to think of what Boggs would say when he encountered an expense labeled “five dollars for Whistling Dixon’s burial fund.” But it had been money well spent. If Silver City was like other frontier towns, Turnbuckle would receive a fixed sum from city coffers for the burial of men such as Dixon, men without families or estates. Which meant he would be required to itemize any contributions to the burial fund that he received, and to turn the money over to the city — and Turnbuckle had not struck him as the sort of man Diogenes had been searching for with his lantern. The five dollars would disappear. And when it did, any inclination Turnbuckle might have to mention Andrew Lyons’ curious visit would disappear along with it.

A pair of brewery wagons, both drawn by thick-bodied dray horses, clogged the street in front of the brewery, waiting to enter the warehouse. The big doors were open and the rich, yeasty smell of beer spiced the air. It made Quincannon thirsty, but it was a thirst he ignored for the moment. The Elgin watch with its fancy case and its inscription was a conscious weight in his pocket.

Why had Whistling Dixon been carrying another man’s watch? What was his connection to the opium-smoking tramp printer, Jason Elder?