The Case of the Deadly Desperados (8 page)

Ledger Sheet 18

AS SAM CLEMENS DREW
his small revolver, I slid under the heavy wooden table as fast as a greased snake down a gopher hole.

“Come back up, P.K.,” said Sam Clemens. “I mean you no harm. On the contrary, I mean to do you a kindness.”

I raised my head up above the table.

“I do not believe in violence,” he said. “I only ever shot at a man once in my life, in the first days of this War between the States we are now embroiled in. I don't know if it was my bullet that done for him or not, but it chilled me to the marrow of my bones. That is one reason I came west, to escape the carnage of that accursed War. Nonetheless, I am going to give you something that may save your life. Here. Take it.” Sam Clemens extended the revolver towards me, butt first.

Feeling sheepish, I stood up and took the gun. It was small—with a barrel only about four inches long—but it was heavy for its size. It had a walnut grip & it felt natural in my hand.

Sam Clemens said, “That is a Smith and Wesson's number one seven-shooter.”

“I have heard of these,” I said. “The ball and charge and cap are all in one cartridge.”

“That's right,” he said. “Some people call them Rimfire Cartridges. That little gun is the latest thing. All you have to do is cock it and fire.”

“Where is the trigger?”

“That is called a spur trigger. When you cock the pistol it pops out.”

I flipped the barrel back on itself & took out the cylinder & saw it was loaded with seven of those new Rimfire Cartridges. I unloaded the revolver & replaced the cylinder & flipped the barrel & cocked it. Sure enough, a little trigger popped out. I tried it out a few times, pulling the trigger and hearing it go click. It looked strange, but it worked fine.

“Cunning, ain't it?” said Sam Clemens. He pulled a handful of spare cartridges from his pocket and laid them on the table.

I knew my foster pa & ma would not approve. But my Indian ma would. She had taught me to shoot a rifle & a revolver. I suspected my Detective pa would be pleased, too.

As I fed some cartridges back into the cylinder I said, “Twenty-two caliber?”

“That's right,” he said. “It has a ball like a homeopathic pill and it takes all seven to make a full dose for an adult.”

I did not know what a homeopathic pill was, but a .22 caliber ball is about the smallest ball you can get.

“The other problem,” said Sam Clemens, “is that it will not hit anything. One of my pals once fired this at a cow. As long as the cow stood still she was safe.”

I finished loading the gun & snapped the cylinder into place & looked up at him. “If I take this, then won't you be defenseless?”

Sam Clemens sat down again & puffed on his pipe. “I have a Colt's Navy Revolver in my bunk next door. I suppose I will have to wear it so as not to be conspicuous by its absence. I would be just as happy to give you that, but it could actually harm someone. That feeble little seven-shooter would not hurt a flea. It is just for looks.”

“So if I were to aim this gun at that picture of the mountain on the wall?” I said.

“You most likely would not hit it. But it looks good and you can scare people off with it.”

I started to put the revolver in the right-hand pocket of my buckskins but quickly remembered I was wearing a pink calico dress. So I put the revolver & spare cartridges in my medicine bag. The gun's walnut grip stuck out a little. But that would make it easy to get at. I slipped the pouch under the neck of my dress. The bulge was not very noticeable.

The door opened & a boy about my age came in with a steaming pitcher. I could smell whiskey, milk, honey & nutmeg.

“The milk punch you ordered, sir,” said the boy. He had light brown hair with a cowlick, and a scattering of freckles across his nose. He put the jug down near Sam. Then he saw me & his eyes opened wide.

“Why, hello, miss,” he said, taking off his hat & pressing it over his heart. “I do not believe we have met.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “Are you new in town? You are real pretty. I believe I would like to steal a kiss from you.”

“You're the Printer's Devil, ain't you?” said Sam Clemens, taking a dusty glass from a shelf.

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your name, boy?”

“Horace, sir.”

“Well, Horace,” said Sam Clemens, “I suggest you leave your courting to another day.” He poured some of the creamy liquid into the glass. “Now skedaddle.”

“Yes, sir,” stammered Horace. He walked towards the door. Because he was still looking at me, he bumped into it. Then he blushed & hurried out.

“What is a Printer's Devil?” I asked.

“Just another name for an apprentice printer,” said Sam Clemens. He took a sip & then smacked his lips. “Milk punch,” he said. “One of mankind's greatest inventions.” He drank long & deeply & when he put his glass down I saw his dusty mustache was tipped with the whiskey-tainted milk.

He was pouring himself a second glassful when the door opened & Dan De Quille came in again.

“I told the Marshal about your parents, P.K.,” he said, removing his hat and hanging it on the hat stand. “He and his Deputy are on their way down to Temperance right now. I looked in at the Colombo Restaurant but Belle was not there.”

He pulled up a chair and said, “You say Belle took your Letter, the one Walt and his pards were after?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Can you remember what that Letter said?”

“I can remember exactly what it said. You show me something once, I never forget it.”

Ledger Sheet 19

THE OTHER WANTED POSTER
of Whittlin Walt lay face up on the table. Dan De Quille turned it over and pushed a pencil towards me.

“Write down as much about that Letter as you can remember,” he said. “We have got to figure out why Walt wants that document so badly. Sam,” he said, “pour me a mug of that punch. I could use a stiff drink.”

While the two reporters drank Milk Punch, I reproduced the Letter as faithfully as I could. I even added the illegible signature and my pa's witness. Then I slid it over for them to inspect.

Dan De Quille and Sam Clemens both bent their heads over my reproduction of the Letter.

After a while Dan looked up at me. “Well, P.K.,” he said, “I am not sure, but if your letter is genuine and if you can recover it, then you might have a claim to part of Mount Davidson. That would make you owner of half the mines here in Virginia. You could be a millionaire.”

Sam Clemens choked on his milk punch & some of it spurted out his nose. Dan De Quille patted him on the back. A cloud of pale yellow alkali dust puffed up. “Sam,” he said, “go take a bath. Your story about the hay wagons will do for today, I think.”

“A millionaire?” said Sam Clemens, dabbing his face with his dusty handkerchief. “This calico-clad Indian could be a millionaire?”

“Selfridge and Bach's Bath House down on B Street is good,” said Dan De Quille. “The water is hot and changed fairly frequently. They are open until midnight. Tell Bach to burn the clothes you are wearing now.”

Sam Clemens looked down at his dusty limbs. Then he scratched his armpit. “You are probably right. I do believe I am lousy. But this is all I've got to wear,” he said. He looked at me. “Maybe the millionaire will loan me a dollar or two?”

Dan De Quille sighed & stood up. He reached into his pocket & flipped Sam Clemens a gold coin. “There is twenty dollars,” he said. “Bach will give you something to wear. Claim a bunk in the shed next door. You can pay me back when you get your first week's wages.”

Sam Clemens nodded. “That is a good plan.” He stuck his pipe in his mouth & strode on long legs to the door.

Just before he went out he turned & said to me, “I hope it works out for you, P.K. I seldom pray, but I believe I will make an exception in your case.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “And thank you for the seven-shooter.”

When the door closed behind him Dan De Quille turned to look at me. “Seven-shooter?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Sam Clemens kindly gave me his Smith and Wesson's number one seven-shooter. It is the latest thing with the ball and charge and cap all packed together in a metal cartridge.”

“Do you know how to operate a firearm?”

“Yes, sir. I know how to shoot a gun.”

“Probably not a bad idea, then,” said Dan De Quille. “Everybody in this town packs a piece of some sort.” He patted the Colt's Navy Revolver in his own belt. Then he sat down & studied my Letter again. “P.K.,” he said, “have you ever heard the name Grosh?”

“No, sir,” I said. And then a thought struck me. “Do you think that could be the last name of the man who wrote the Letter? Whose signature I could not decipher?”

“I do,” said Dan De Quille. “Here in Virginia the name Grosh is legendary. Hosea Ballou Grosh and Ethan Allen Grosh were brothers. They had been over in California at a place called Volcano. They were mining experts who came here about ten years ago to look for silver. Silver, do you hear me? Not gold.”

“Silver,” I repeated.

“That is correct,” said Dan De Quille. “Now, there were already some miners here. They were spillovers from the Big California Gold Rush of '49. They made a little money by placer mining but when they tried to dig they found only a heavy blue mud. Those miners cursed it, but the Grosh Brothers realized that blue mud contained
silver
. In 1856 they wrote to their father back east that they had found rich ledges of silver up in Gold Canyon and that one of those ledges was a ‘perfect monster.'”

“Is that good?” I asked.

“That is very good,” said Dan De Quille. “The Grosh Brothers were on the brink of becoming fabulously rich. But they died before they could stake their claim.”

At that moment the door of the Territorial Enterprise swung open with a bang as loud as a gunshot. Dan and I both jumped up out of our chairs.

It was not Whittlin Walt at the door, but a smiling Chinaman in loose blue pantaloons and shirt like Ping's.

“Hello, Joe,” said Dan De Quille. And to me he said, “Old Joe here is our cook. Most of the boys eat next door but he sometimes brings me a special dinner.”

I nodded a greeting. This must be Ping's uncle.

“Hello, Mister Dan,” said Old Joe. “You hungry? You want special dinner?”

“I am ravenous,” said Dan De Quille. “I could eat an entire steer, horns and all. How about you, P.K.?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I am ravenous, too.”

“We have no steer tonight,” said Old Joe. “Them boys ate it, horns and all.”

Dan grinned. “Well then, how about one of your late-night breakfasts?” He turned to me. “What'll you have to drink? Milk? Sarsaparilla? Whiskey?”

“I am partial to black coffee,” I said.

Dan De Quille nodded & turned to Old Joe. “Two coffees,” he said. “And bring us a stack of pancakes and bacon with some of that good maple syrup. Not the sorghum syrup, Joe. The maple syrup.”

Old Joe bowed, and when he turned to go, I saw he had a gray pigtail so long that it reached past his waist.

Dan De Quille said to me, “Where was I?”

“The Grosh Brothers and their monster ledge of silver,” I said.

“That's right. Well, the Grosh Brothers tested this monster vein and they found it to be beautifully soft and untainted by other metals. But to get out the silver, they needed money.”

Dan sat back & smiled. “There is a famous saying hereabouts.
You need a gold mine to afford a silver mine
. So they determined to go back to Volcano and get some financial backers. But before they could leave, Hosea put a pickaxe through his foot. Sadly, the wound festered and he died in September. Ethan was grief-stricken and tempted to give up. He rallied his spirits and decided to stay on and mine that monster vein of silver, but first he had to bury his brother.”

I nodded again & thought of my dead foster parents, lying scalped & unburied. I hoped the Marshal would take care of their bodies.

Dan De Quille said, “By the time he had paid off the expenses of his brother's burial, it was mid-November. They say you should never cross the Sierra Nevada Mountains after October. Ethan Allen Grosh and his companion—a young Canadian called Bucke—took a gamble in crossing the mountains so late in the season.” Dan shook his head. “Their gamble did not pay off.”

I sat forward. I had heard the terrible tale of a family called Donner who had been caught in a blizzard in those same mountains. Some had died of hunger & the others had only survived by eating the frozen bodies of their companions.

“Was he froze in a blizzard and eaten by his companion?” I said.

“No, but they were caught in a heavy snowfall and they did have to eat their donkey. They threw away all their belongings, including maps, claims and samples. By the time they reached the Last Chance Mining Camp, their feet were so badly frozen that they had to be amputated.”

I shuddered. I knew amputation was when they cut parts off of you.

I tried to imagine having no feet.

I could not do it.

“Bucke survived,” said Dan De Quille, “but poor Ethan Allen died. There is a rumor that he wrote a Deed for that monster silver vein on his deathbed. When Bucke recovered, he searched but could not find it anywhere. Still, there were other people there in the Last Chance Mining Camp. Perhaps one of them took it. Ethan Allen Grosh's lost Deed is the Holy Grail of this region. Anyone who finds it and presents it would be rich as Creesus.”