Quincannon

Chapter 8

The buildings of the Paymaster mine were arranged on tiers down the mountainside, so that they resembled a single multilevel structure. Their sheet-metal roofs glistened under the afternoon sun. So did the fan of tailings below the stamp mill, spread out from the foot of the cantilevered tramway that extended down to the mill from the main tunnel above.

Quincannon rode into the mine yard. Three men were harnessing a team of dray horses to a big, yellow-painted Studebaker freight wagon; the only other men in sight were up on the tram, pushing ore carts from the tunnel to the chute that fed the mill, back again for another load. Quincannon. dismounted, tied the roan to one of the yard stanchions, and approached the men at the Studebaker wagon to ask the location of the mine office.

One of the men pointed to a small building upslope. “But if you’re looking for Mr. Truax,” he said, “he ain’t there.”

“Where would I find him?”

“Down in the mill. Stairs over yonder.”

A dynamite explosion deep inside the mine made the ground tremble as Quincannon descended a steep flight of stairs to the stamp mill. When he entered he had no trouble locating Truax; together with a burly man in miner’s garb, probably the mill foreman, he was inspecting one of the eccentrics that raised the stamps, shut down now and locked into place. Rather than interrupt them, Quincannon stayed where he was near the entrance and watched the machinery and the millhands at their work.

He had visited a stamp mill once before, in the Comstock Lode; he knew how they worked. The smaller pieces of ore that came tumbling down the chute went through a three-inch grizzly or grating into the feed bins; anything larger was shunted into a jaw crusher. The dressed ore was fed automatically to the stamps, where it was wet-stamped with a mixture of mercury, water, and patio reagents; the mercury drew the raw silver out of the slimes. At the end of a long process that included mulling, separating, and drainage, slugs of amalgam emerged and were delivered to retort furnaces that distilled off the quicksilver. The sponge matte was then melted and cast into bars in the adjacent melting room.

Quincannon waited ten minutes in the lanternlit enclosure, keeping out of the way of the sweating millhands, before Truax and his foreman finished their inspection and the fat mine owner turned toward the entrance. Truax recognized Quincannon with no outward show of surprise. He gestured that they go outside, where they could make themselves heard above the thunder of the iron-shod stamps.

“Well, Mr. Lyons, what brings you here?”

“A private matter,” Quincannon said. “I wonder if we might talk in your office?”

“I’m a busy man, you know. If it concerns salts or whatever it is you’re selling…”

“Not at all. It concerns buying, not selling.”

“Ah? Buying what?”

“Shares in the Paymaster Mining Company, perhaps, if they’re available.”

Truax’s expression changed; an avid sort of interest shone in his eyes. “Well, then, I’m sure I can spare you a few minutes. Yes, I’m sure I can. Come along, Mr. Lyons.”

He led the way up the stairs. The workers who had been harnessing the drays to the Studebaker wagon were gone now, but two other men had taken their place. One was dressed in standard miner’s clothing; the other, swarthy and half a head taller, wore a frock coat over gray twill trousers, and a Montana peaked hat. When the tall one spied Truax he came quickly away from the wagon.

Truax said, “Hello, Bogardus,” without enthusiasm. The tone of his voice and the look on his face told Quincannon that the swarthy man was not someone he liked.

Quincannon wondered if that was because of the rumors he’d heard about Jack Bogardus and Truax’s wife. He studied the owner of the Rattling Jack mine, who had acknowledged Truax’s greeting with a curt nod and was now staring at the man with thinly veiled hostility. He was about forty, clean-shaven except for thick sideburns, with a long dark face and the eyes of a hellfire preacher. Some women would find him attractive, Quincannon thought; those fiery eyes had a spellbinding quality.

“The wagon and team are ready for you,” Truax said, “as you’ve no doubt seen. Did you bring the cash?”

“Would I be here if I hadn’t?”

“Come along to the office.”

But Bogardus didn’t move. “One of those horses is spavined,” he said.

“Nonsense.”

“Right hock on the big gray. Look at it yourself.”

“I don’t need to look at it. Those horses are sound; so is the wagon. The price is five hundred, Bogardus, just as we agreed on. Not a penny less.”

Bogardus showed his teeth in a sardonic smile. “If I didn’t need that wagon I’d tell you to go to hell.”

“But you do need it, so you say. And no one else in Silver has one for sale. Besides, you can afford my price, now that you’ve struck your new vein.”

“A richer vein than you ever saw,” Bogardus said.

“Indeed? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe, Truax.”

“My time is valuable and you’re wasting it. I have business to discuss with this gentleman.” He nodded at Quincannon. “Five hundred cash, Bogardus. Will you pay it?”

Bogardus produced a money clip that held a thick sheaf of notes. From it he removed five one-hundred-dollar greenbacks. His fiery eyes remained fixed on Truax’s face; Quincannon might not have been there at all. “You’ll get these when I have a bill of sale,” he said.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“No more than you trust me.”

Truax made a laughing sound that had no mirth in it. He set out upslope; Bogardus stared after him for a moment and then followed, and Quincannon did the same. Inside the mine office Truax clumped past a man seated at a high desk piled with ledgers, went through a doorway into a private office, and sat down at a polished cherrywood desk that was much too ornate to have been made in Silver City. Neither Bogardus nor Quincannon shut the door when they entered. Bogardus slapped the five hundred-dollar notes on the desktop, kept his hand on them until Truax had written out a bill of sale and signed it and Bogardus had read it over. Truax added the greenbacks to others in a silver clip of his own; Bogardus put the bill of sale away inside his frock coat. Not a word was spoken through all of this, nor after the transaction was finished. The two men exchanged a final look, after which Bogardus turned on his heel and stalked out.

Quincannon closed the door and occupied a chair opposite Truax. “I take it you and Mr. Bogardus aren’t friends,” he said.

“Friends? The man is a scoundrel and worse.”

“How so, Mr. Truax?”

“For one thing, he is a fornicator. I cannot abide a fornicator.”

So Truax did know, or at least suspect, that his wife might be cuckolding him with Bogardus. Quincannon asked, “Is he also dishonest?”

“He is. Dishonesty is how he obtained his Rattling Jack mine two years ago.”

“Oh? A swindle?”

“Not precisely. The former owner, Jack Finkle, had it up for sale because of failing health — asking a fair price, I might add. Bogardus arranged two accidents at the mine, one that crippled Finkle’s son-in-law, in order to drive the selling price down to where he could afford it. Everyone knows it was his work, but nothing was ever proved.”

“The Rattling Jack is a well-paying mine, then?”

“It wasn’t until Bogardus struck a new vein six months ago. The old vein was gradually pinching out.” Truax’s voice was bitter; it was plain that he begrudged Bogardus his newfound wealth. “Now his ore is assaying at one hundred dollars a ton, so he claims. Half of what the Paymaster assays at twice the tonnage per day, but still substantial.”

“Is that why he needs a new freight wagon? To ship more of his silver?”

“Evidently. He lost his biggest wagon last week, I’m told; one of his drivers misjudged a turn coming down the pass road, his load shifted, and the wagon went over the side.” Truax said that last with satisfaction.

Quincannon asked, “Is Bogardus a native of Silver City?”

“No. Came here a few months before he purchased the Rattling Jack.”

“From where?”

“Somewhere in Oregon.” Truax frowned. “You seem unduly interested in Bogardus, Mr. Lyons.”

Quincannon smiled disarmingly. “Idle curiosity,” he said. “I fear I have an inquisitive nature.”

“Indeed.” Truax opened a humidor on his desk, took out an expensive cheroot, sniffed it, then picked up a pair of silver clippers and snipped off the end. He did not offer Quincannon one of the cigars. “Now then,” he said, when he had the cheroot burning to his satisfaction, “you wanted to discuss the purchase of Paymaster stock?”

“Yes. Are shares available?”

“Possibly. But you’ll pardon me, Mr. Lyons, if I ask how a patent medicine drummer can expect to buy valuable shares in one of the largest and most profitable silver mines in the state of Idaho.”

“Oh, it’s not I who is interested in purchasing the shares,” Quincannon said. “No, I am inquiring on behalf of the president of my company, Mr. Arthur Caldwell of San Francisco. You’ve heard of him, surely?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“A very important man,” Quincannon said. “He is a close friend of Mar. Charles Crocker, among others.”

Truax had heard of Crocker, one of the “Big Four” railroad tycoons who had been potent factors in the shaping of California politics and economy for close to thirty years; and the name impressed him. Interest glittered in his eyes again, ignited by what Quincannon took to be the spark of greed. “Mr. Caldwell is well-to-do, then?” he asked.

“Extremely. Stock speculation is both a hobby and an avocation with him; he has been quite successful.”

“Am I to understand that you act as his agent in such matters?”

“No, not at all. I am merely a patent medicine drummer, as you pointed out, although I do have ambitions, of course. I have scouted likely stock prospects for Mr. Caldwell in the past, and he has seen fit to reward my help with cash bonuses. I expect I will also soon be promoted to a managerial position with our San Francisco office.”

“I see,” Truax said. He waved away a cloud of fragrant smoke. “And you feel the Paymaster Mining Company would be a good investment for him?”

“I do, based on inquiries I made in town this morning. I spoke to Sabina Carpenter, for one. She told me she recently purchased an amount of Paymaster stock.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Five thousand dollars’ worth.”

Quincannon raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite a substantial investment for the owner of a millinery shop.”

“An inheritance from an aunt in Denver, I believe.”

“Ah, I see,” Quincannon said. But he was wondering if that was really where Sabina Carpenter had obtained the five thousand dollars. “Can you tell me how much stock is available for purchase by Mr. Caldwell?”

“Well, the original issue was twenty-five thousand shares, nearly all of which has been sold. I’ll have to check to determine just how much is left. However, I can tell you now that one of our large Seattle stockholders has expressed a willingness to sell at the right price.”

“How many shares does this stockholder control?”

“Let me see… two thousand, I believe.”

“Do you know how much he would be willing to take for them?”

“He has said he would accept fifty dollars a share. Fair market value, I assure you.”

“You yourself own controlling stock in the company, I take it — you and your charming wife.”

“I do, yes,” Truax said. “Ten thousand shares. But the stock is in my name alone.

“Mrs. Truax has none at all?”

“No. Well, I gifted her with two hundred and fifty shares as a wedding present, but that is hardly a significant amount.”

“Do any of the other major stockholders live in Silver City?” Quincannon asked.

“No. They are all scattered throughout Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and California.”

Quincannon sat in speculative silence for a time. Truax, who seemed to be trying to contain his eagerness, took the opportunity to fetch up a bottle of Kentucky sour mash from a sideboard behind his desk.

“Drink, Mr. Lyons?”

“Well… I don’t mind if I do.”

Truax poured one for each of them. Quincannon drank his without savoring or even tasting it; except for its low heat in his throat and stomach, it might have been bootleg hooch made out of tobacco and wood alcohol.

Truax said in greasy tones, “May I count on you to recommend the Paymaster Mining Company to Mr. Caldwell?”

“I will recommend that he consider it, yes.”

“Excellent.”

“He will make inquiries of his own, naturally,” Quincannon said. “And if he does decide to buy, I’m sure he’ll contact you directly.”

“I shall be delighted to hear from him.” Quincannon made as if to vacate his chair, and Truax said, as Quincannon had hoped he would, “Another drink before you leave?”

“Yes, thanks. Kind of you.”

He made the second whiskey last for two swallows. Then he stood and shook hands with Truax, who remained seated. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again before I leave Silver City, Mr. Truax,” he said.

“It would be a pleasure. Will you be staying long?”

“Not as long as I had expected.” Quincannon assumed a solemn expression. “The old friend I had hoped to see, Whistling Dixon, was killed last night.”

Truax’s reaction was nil, beyond a look of sympathy as feigned as Quincannon’s grief. If anything, he seemed disinterested — but that may have been feigned too. “What happened to the poor fellow?”

“No one knows exactly. He was shot sometime last night, in Slaughterhouse Gulch.”

“Shot?”

“Murdered.”

“Bandits,” Truax said immediately. “These mountains are acrawl with them.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told.” Quincannon shook his head. “It seems to be a day for unpleasant news,” he said. “I spoke to Will Coffin this morning; he told me the newspaper office was broken into again during his absence.”

Truax showed no particular interest in that either. “Was there much damage?”

“Little enough.”

“Those damned heathen Chinamen ought to be run clear out of the Owyhees.”

“So you said yesterday,” Quincannon reminded him blandly. “Poor Mr. Coffin. To compound his problems, his part-time printer, Jason Elder, has disappeared.”

“Elder? Oh yes, the opium addict.”

“You don’t know the man personally?”

“Of course not. I don’t keep company with dope fiends.”

Perhaps not, Quincannon thought, but your wife surely does. He said, “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Truax. Thank you for seeing me, and for your excellent whiskey.”

“Not at all. My pleasure. Ah, you will be sending a wire to Mr. Caldwell right away, won’t you?”

“This very evening.”

“Will you let me know if you have a reply from him?”

“Right away.”

Truax beamed at him. He even stood up as Quincannon took his leave of the office.

Riding out of the mine yard, Quincannon fired his pipe and reflected sourly that he was accumulating a great deal of curious information but that none of it seemed to fit together into a useful pattern. Nor did any of it seem directly related to the gang of koniakers, with the probable exception of Whistling Dixon’s murder and the possible exception of Jason Elder’s disappearance. And now he needed the answers to several puzzling and related questions before he could even begin to piece things together.

Why had Helen Truax signed over all of her two hundred and fifty shares in the Paymaster Mining Company to Elder — shares worth better than twelve thousand dollars?

Why had Sabina Carpenter taken those shares from Elder’s shack and what did she intend to do with them?

Why was Truax so eager to sell Paymaster stock?

What, exactly, was Helen Traux’s relationship with Jack Bogardus?

And if Bogardus was as dishonest as Truax claimed, did that dishonesty extend to counterfeiting and murder?