The Shopkeeper (15 page)

Sharp added from the other side of McAllen, “Considerin’ his reputation, if we can tie both the horse an’ the butt to Sprague, a reasonable judge might let it go to trial.”

“In Nevada?” Sharp said. “That’ll be harder to spot than a lonely butt tossed six feet off a trail. On second thought, we need more.”

A thought struck me. “We might have more. Jenny said the shot blew Bolton’s brains against the wall. The shot must have passed through. The bullet can at least confirm a .44.”

“Depends on how bad it’s mashed up. Rather have the casing, but three tiny pieces of evidence is better than two.” McAllen sounded almost hopeful.

“Maybe, but I’ve been thinking. Mrs. Bolton went for my line too easy. She must suspect there’s a real will and that John did give Jenny his holdings.”

“I think Mrs. Bolton was tryin’ to scare Jenny into runnin’. She could sneak into the barn, saddle up, an’ be gone easy enough, then sell the horse in town an’ jump the next stage for who knows where.” Sharp wiped his forehead with the edge of the bandanna he had tied around his neck. “Yep, if Mrs. Bolton thought Jenny might have a legitimate claim on the ranch, she’d sure as hell want her to disappear. Could explain her meanness.”

“Her meanness, as you call it, goes beyond trying to chase her away. That was as nasty a piece of business as I’ve ever encountered.”

“No use tryin’ to figure out a woman’s hates. I think some just hate for the pure joy of it.” When I did not respond, Sharp added, “Jenny’s little more than a child, but if the ranch is really hers, ya should stay out of it, despite what ya promised that ol’ hag.”

“If Bolton willed Jenny the ranch or put her name on the deed, then I’ll help evict that old shrew. If Jenny has no claim, then I’ll fake one and trade it for her freedom. Either way, I’m already in it up to my boot tops.”

McAllen turned the conversation in a direction that made me uncomfortable. “You got that pretty lady out of the bunkhouse, so what’s put you in such a funk?”

I turned in my saddle and glared at McAllen. After a moment, he said, “I apologize. None of my business. But your safety is. Get back in position.”

I reined my horse around and fell in with Sam behind Sharp and McAllen. It took a few minutes for my temper to abate, but I knew it was embarrassment, not McAllen’s nosiness, that got my ire. I was tired and sore from riding, and I wanted my own clothes and my own horse back. In fact, I wanted this whole damned affair over with. How had I gotten so deeply involved with these hardtack men?

Then I remembered that day in the street with the Cutlers. What had I been thinking? I hadn’t been thinking. I had let emotions rule me, just as I was letting an obsession with a young girl dictate my actions now. Jenny was not important. I barely knew her. In fact, I’d had had only one real conversation with her and that had been rather unpleasant.

I told myself that I should be concerned only with getting out of this mess. As I thought through my tasks in Carson City, I felt myself relax, and I was finally able to ride comfortably in the saddle.

More soldiers passed us on the road, and I saw a fort ahead. I was trying to think how the cavalry might be useful, when Sharp interrupted my thoughts. “Fort Churchill. Built durin’ the supposed Indian troubles about ten years ago.”

“Any trouble nowadays?”

Sharp sighed. “Yep, but of a different nature. The Indians have a tent encampment in Carson City. Sits right close to Chinatown. Now you’re more likely to meet a drunk Indian than one on the warpath.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I don’t go for that noble-savage crap you easterners peddle. I’ve known too many Indians close up. Same faults as us. But it makes me sad when I think about what we lost.”

“You mean the Indian way of life?”

“No. I mean fightin’ a worthy enemy.”

Chapter 26

Carson City disappointed me. It looked like all the other collections of slapdash buildings that Nevada called towns. I had always believed that if Abraham Lincoln had not needed another free state to shore up the North during the late war, Nevada would still be a remote and ignored territory.

Carson City had been settled as a trading post less than thirty years earlier, so I should not have expected the sophistication of Denver or St. Louis. I had visited both cities, and neither was the primitive hinterland a New Yorker might expect. Carson City, on the other hand, lived up to the image of a new-made town
populated by people who had nothing but wanted everything.

After we passed the railroad station and approached the statehouse, the town began to look a bit more established. The main thoroughfare was crowded with wagons, horses, and people bustling about with purpose. Although the commercial district had the same disheveled look as most of the other towns in the West, the residences along the side avenues set Carson City apart. Radiating off the central artery were numerous tree-lined lanes with houses substantial enough to indicate that people intended to stay awhile. In fact, some of these homes were large and well designed.

“Do they mine hereabouts?” I asked Sharp.

“Nope, but Virginia City is only about twenty miles away.”

I glanced up another side lane with nice homes set back from the street. “Looks like there’s some money in Carson City. Settled money.”

“For a mine to prosper, you need two things: lumber to shore up the shafts an’ a way to transport your bullion to market. Trees an’ trains. Carson City has a lock on both. Sometimes I think we miners just toil for a bunch of shysters in starched collars.”

“Which reminds me, I want to buy some clothes while we’re here.”

Sharp pointed ahead. “That’s the new state capitol building. Wherever ya find politicians, ya’ll find haberdasheries.”

The stately capitol building looked sturdy and permanent, as befitted the only pretense to law and order in a society struggling against anarchy. The structure sat in the center of a city block, surrounded by a pleasant park with footpaths, trees, and neatly groomed grass. A white cupola with a silver roof capped the two-story sandstone building, giving it a Federal-style appearance that I had seldom seen west of the Continental Divide.

“Looks impressive.”

“Looks deceive.” Sharp spit. “A more corrupt state government you will not find.”

We wove
our way through the traffic clogging the street and made our way to the St. Charles Hotel. As we dismounted, a liveryman ran up and offered to take our horses to the stable. Perhaps Carson City had some sophistication after all. I gave the boy two bits and looked around. New construction seemed to be going on everywhere, filling the street with the noise of hammering, yelling, and an occasional curse.

When we checked into the hotel, McAllen insisted on rooms next to each other. I noticed that he did not ask to nail the back door shut. The hotel must have been one of the best in town, because I was able to get a two-room suite, and the hotelkeeper informed us that there would be daily maid service and hot baths with fresh water for every guest. In Pickhandle Gulch, I paid extra for water that miners hadn’t already turned to mud.

After we had climbed the stairs, McAllen stopped us on the landing. “This is Sprague’s home base, so I don’t expect trouble, but don’t go anywhere without one of my men.” He nodded toward Sharp. “Not even with just Jeff.”

The hotel bathroom had four tubs separated by folding screens. An attendant drained the dirty water between guests and even made a rough attempt to scrub the tub before pouring in fresh water. In the Pickhandle Gulch barbershop, I had paid six bits for a fresh bath, but the hotel charge of two dollars still seemed like a bargain.

I had just had my bath freshened with a bucket of hot water, when Sharp came in and swung a stool around next to me. “Bradshaw meets us for supper at seven.”

“How do we approach him?”

“Straightaway. Bradshaw isn’t given to political blather.”

“But he
is
a politician.” I sunk down until the water touched my chin. “He’s mayor, and he has his fingers in everything else.”

“Stomp the pretender before he gets a toehold?” Sharp signaled the attendant and started to pull off his boots. “Bradshaw’ll look for a way to do that without gettin’ hobbled by the governor’s job.”

The attendant filled the tub next to me and folded back
the screen so we could see each other. Sharp started to hand two dollars to the attendant, but he waved it away. “Mr. Dancy bought all four tubs.”

Sharp finished undressing and slid into the water, giving a long sigh of pleasure. I allowed him to enjoy the moment before I said, “Bradshaw has controlled the governor up to now. He knows how useful it is to have the state chief executive in his pocket.”

“Let me tell ya somethin’ about Bradshaw. I like the man, but he’s a master at corruptin’ people. He knows Craig Stevens, dealt with him as head of the Assembly, an’ he’ll be confident he can seduce him after the election—Washburn or no Washburn. Might already have him in his pocket an’ suckered Washburn into payin’ for his campaign.”

I thought about it a minute. “I don’t think so. From what I’ve seen, Washburn’s a smart operator. He’ll have something on Stevens to keep him in line.” I dunked my head and wiped the water away from my eyes with the fingers of both hands. “I need to persuade Bradshaw to run. Everything depends on it.”

Chapter 27

Bradshaw was older than I had expected. I guessed he was in his midfifties, which looked out of place in a town populated with people twenty to thirty years younger.

His age was not the only thing that made him stand out. A few scattered couples in the hotel restaurant were dressed well, but for the most part, customers were dressed in a rough type of attire more appropriate to a saloon. Bradshaw set off his tall, thin stature with a charcoal suit that looked as if it had been tailored in the East. His short hair and neatly trimmed beard projected an image of power and money. I was glad I had brought along one of my own New York suits and had it brushed and pressed for this appointment.

We stood as Sharp made the introductions. Captain McAllen and one of his men watched the exchange from another table, but Bradshaw did not seem to notice. After we had retaken our seats, Bradshaw said, “So you’re the famous shopkeeper.”

“So I hear.” Bradshaw laid his napkin carefully across his lap. “I accepted this invitation because after all the talk, I wanted to meet you. I, however, am not the subject of widespread gossip, so why did you want to meet with me?”

Sharp had been right. Bradshaw didn’t blather about politics—nor anything else, I imagined. I didn’t want to jump right into my purpose for this dinner, so I suggested we get drinks and order our meal first. Bradshaw gave me an appraising look and then assented with a nod.