The Stolen Gold Affair

7 Quincannon

It took him most of a week to put together a partial list of suspects. The Monarch’s nervous assistant foreman, Frank McClellan, was one; another was a slab-faced day-shift station tender named Joe Simcox, whom Quincannon had spied sneaking away from the station one afternoon and who had unaccountably managed to disappear when followed. He agreed with O’Hearn’s estimate that it would take at least half a dozen miners to steal enough gold to make the risk worthwhile for all concerned, some of whom figured to be working the night and graveyard shifts. The gang’s methods were clever and sophisticated, which to him meant that it must be gold dust and not gold-bearing ore that was being smuggled out. But he had yet to uncover a clue as to how such a bold refining process could be accomplished in a mine operating with mostly full crews twenty-four hours a day.

Jedediah Yost, if in fact that was his true name, was also on the suspect list; O’Hearn had been right in not trusting the man’s recurring presence in Patch Creek. Whether or not Yost was a union representative was still open to question, though Quincannon doubted it. That the camp did not have a telegraph office, a fact he had discovered to his chagrin the evening after his arrival, made it difficult if not impossible for Sabina to forward any data she might have uncovered about the man. (And for him to keep his promise to contact her periodically.) It was conceivable that Yost was an outside member of the gang, perhaps even the ringleader — the man to whom the stolen gold was given for safekeeping or for conversion into greenbacks or bonds. Deeply involved in any event.

Other factors made Quincannon reasonably sure of this. On more than one occasion, he’d learned by hearsay, McClellan had visited Yost in his room at the Monarch Hotel, ostensibly to discuss union business. Simcox had also been a visitor. To make the connection complete, Quincannon had twice seen the trio sharing a poker table at the Golden Dollar, and on another occasion spotted Yost and McClellan engaged in a low-voiced conversation that struck him as conspiratorial.

Most genuine union organizers were firebrands, but Yost was neither bombastic nor prepossessing; for the most part his manner was as bland as his countenance. According to hearsay, his call for larger wages and better safety regulations on his previous two visits had been low-key, and O’Hearn’s instructions to his guards to use force if Yost attempted to enter the Monarch compound had failed to stir Yost to action. On this third stay, he had spent no time passing out leaflets and speechifying on behalf of the Far West Mine Workers Union. All of which pointed to the man’s not being who and what he claimed to be.

His alleged interest in buying land in the area appeared bogus, too, since he seldom left the settlement during the day and spent most of his nights playing stud poker. Why was he here, then? Two possibilities, separate or in conjunction. One: dissension among the gang members required his presence as unifying force or peacemaker. Two: a large amount of looted gold was being stockpiled and he had come to collect it.

Just who was Yost? Gambler, grifter, professional thief, black-marketeer? And where had he come from? None of the miners or tradespeople seemed to know. Or to care, as long as he kept buying free drinks and losing as much as he won at stud poker.

Quincannon had made no effort to speak to the man directly. Nothing would have been gained by making himself known to Yost, and might have succeeded only in putting his undercover status at risk and compromising his investigation. As it was, McClellan’s apparent suspicion of him as a company spy had surely been communicated to Yost and the other members of the gang. In which case they would be keeping an eye on him, just as he was doing on the three suspected conspirators.

That was one reason he had not attempted a search of Yost’s hotel room, much as he would have liked to. Not for the stolen gold — Yost was too smart to keep any among his belongings — but for some idea of who the man was and where he’d come from. Such a venture was too dangerous even if an opportunity had presented itself. A newly hired timberman had no business in the Monarch Hotel unless invited, and trying to sneak in under cover of darkness was a fool’s gambit.

But there was another search he could make, so long as he went about it with extreme caution. And he would, as soon as circumstances favored it.

One thing he now knew for sure was that Yost, despite his small stature and quiet demeanor, possessed a commanding presence and a penchant for deadly violence. An incident Quincannon had observed in the Golden Dollar on Wednesday night removed any doubt of that.

It happened during a game of five-card stud in which Yost was one of five players; the others were day-shift miners, Simcox but not McClellan among them. A small group had formed to watch the action and Quincannon joined them, keeping in the background.

The stakes were relatively low — one-dollar limit, maximum of two raises — but at that a fair amount of money was being won and lost. Yost had accumulated the largest pile of chips, betting conservatively and no doubt skillfully bluffing when the opportunity presented itself. He held his hole cards close to his chest, studying the cards turned faceup on the table and the faces of his opponents with sharp-eyed concentration.

Conversation was desultory, Yost contributing little to what was said, until one of the other players, a burly and half-drunk French Canadian named DuBois who had been losing steadily, turned sullen and glowering. When his nine-high straight was beaten by Yost’s jacks full, and Yost allowed as how it was his lucky night as he raked in the pot, DuBois slammed a meaty fist down on the table. “By damn,” he grumbled in a whiskey-thick voice, “if I don’t know better I think maybe you make your own luck, m’sieu.”

Yost said mildly, “But you do know better, don’t you, Frenchy.”

“Yah, maybe I don’t. You win every time you deal the cards.”

“Are you calling me a cheat?”

DuBois’s lip curled. He said angrily, “J’en ai plein le cul!”

“You want to cuss me,” Yost said, laying his hands flat on the table, “by God do it in English.”

“Bah! I am sick of losing to you, that’s what I say.”

“Then quit playing and walk away.”

“What if I don’t want to quit, eh?”

“Then shut up and take your losses like a man.”

Beet-red anger suffused DuBois’s jowly face. He bounced to his feet, kicking his chair over backward. “No one tells DuBois to shut up!” He stabbed a horny finger at Yost and took two steps around the table toward him. Two steps only. Then he stopped dead still, because he was looking down the muzzle of a hammerless .32-caliber pocket pistol.

The weapon seemed to appear in Yost’s hand as if by a conjuring trick; Quincannon had never seen a faster, smoother draw. The other poker players and the onlookers sucked in their breaths.

“Take one more step,” Yost said, “and you’ll be a cripple for the rest of your life.”

DuBois didn’t move. No one else moved either. The sudden tension was palpable; even the piano player ceased his discordant music-making. Yost meant what he’d said. Though his expression remained as bland as ever, his purpose was plain in the way he stood, the rigid extension of the gun, his unblinking gaze. The pupils of his eyes were so dark they looked black in the lamplight, as hard and shiny as anthracite.

He let several seconds pass before he said, “I won’t stand for verbal threats or physical assault, Frenchy. You understand that now, don’t you.” The last sentence was not a question.

DuBois’s anger had deserted him. He looked confused, chastened. “Yah, I understand.”

“All right, then. You have two choices. Sit down and play cards, or cash in and walk out. Which is it to be?”

It took the French Canadian less than five seconds to make a decision. He pocketed his few remaining chips, saved as much face as he could by glaring at Yost, and stomped out. Only when DuBois was gone did Yost relax and repocket his pistol in a motion almost as swift and deft as his draw.

“Okay, gents,” he said to the other players, his voice mild again, “we’ll continue with our friendly game. Whose deal is it?”

Oh, yes, Quincannon thought, a dangerous and violent man. And an adversary not to be underestimated.