The Shopkeeper (29 page)

“I understand.” McAllen said. Then, “You think Bradshaw can win?”

“Bradshaw is doing such a good job smearing Stevens, I’ll be surprised if Stevens doesn’t withdraw from the race. Washburn must be furious.”

“Will he sit still?” McAllen asked.

Sharp leaned forward. “I’m going to spread the story that Sprague’s little black book contained names instead of initials. Make him think we have a stronger case. I’ll also start a rumor that he’ll be indicted for corruption associated with the First Carson City Bank. He’ll spend at least a few days figuring out a response. After that, it depends on whether we can actually get an indictment.”

Chapter 50

I looked in the mirror and snuggled a bowler hat on my head. I liked what I saw. My dark New York suit draped off my shoulders perfectly, and my shirt looked crisp and white. I picked up my gun belt and slung it around my waist, cinching it comfortably tight.

I pulled my Colt to check the load and then enjoyed the heft for a minute before slipping it back into the holster. The last thing I did was pick up the little black book and secure it in my inside breast pocket. I was ready.

It had been three days since the meeting with McAllen, and I had kept busy closing an important business deal. Sharp had left for Virginia City with two guards almost immediately after our breakfast, and yesterday the two Pinkertons from Pickhandle arrived. McAllen ordered them to march up and down the streets asking people if they had seen Sean Washburn. Everybody in Carson City knew they meant to arrest him. Hopefully, everyone in the state knew.

McAllen had made himself obvious around town and had hired a man to ride out to Virginia City to eavesdrop in the saloons, so we could have an early warning if some unsavory characters rode out toward Carson City. The newspapers and the senate continued to rail against the sinister doings of Carson City First Bank, with hints that Stevens and Washburn were in cahoots with shysters. Bradshaw had certainly demonstrated that he could pull the levers of power.

That morning, I had received a telegram from Sharp, saying that Washburn was still in Virginia City. More importantly, the telegram informed me that Washburn was staying at the Comstock Lode Saloon and that Sharp’s own business was near completion.

These messages were codes in case McAllen saw the telegram. Mention of the Comstock Lode Saloon meant Washburn was still hosting his shooting contests, and the reference to Sharp completing his business meant that the rumors he was spreading had reached Washburn. Both were crucial to my plans. The shooting contest would help me escape the law, and the rumors would, hopefully, protect me from Washburn’s henchmen. It seemed that everything in Virginia City was ready and waiting for me.

One part of Sharp’s telegram bothered me. He said Washburn appeared unconcerned. Was he a good actor, or did he have plans of his own? I didn’t know, but by the end of the day, it shouldn’t matter.

All of this was sideshow. I had deceived McAllen about the book and lied to him about staying close by him in Carson City. I grabbed my lapels and tugged them taut. The curtain was about to go up on the main act.

Since I did not own this hotel, I was able to exit by an unbarred back door. I had told McAllen I wanted to finish
Tom Sawyer
in my suite so he would not look for me until dinner. I left the hotel, walked west until I reached a residential street that paralleled Carson Street, and continued toward the train station. There was a short spur that connected Virginia City to the Carson City main rail line. It was used mainly to transport ore and mining materials between the two towns, but it also had a passenger car.

I had walked out of the hotel only twenty minutes before the train was supposed to leave because I didn’t want to hang around the station and be spotted by a Pinkerton. I arrived with only five minutes remaining before the scheduled departure, and I was pleased to see that the train was in the station. No delays. With a quick ticket purchase, I was on board before anyone noticed me.

The freight train took nearly an hour to travel the twenty miles to Virginia City. When I walked out of the rail station, the city visually fell away down a steep, stony mountain, and the steeply terraced roads provided good sight lines of much of the town.

The vibrancy startled me. Virginia City was bigger and more frantic than I had imagined. The town streets cut horizontally across the hills, and I could see hundreds of people milling around. Someone with little imagination had named the streets after the letters in the alphabet, and a simple inquiry informed me that the Comstock Lode Saloon was on C Street. I found it with little trouble, but I didn’t want to go in yet. I looked around, spotted a café across the street, and hurried over before I was recognized.

I took a seat at a tiny table and ordered a meal I had no desire to eat. Timing was everything. The shooting contest had to have begun before I made an appearance. My plan suddenly seemed a bit shaky. It depended on Washburn taking action on the spur of the moment, and the man had not shown himself to be rash.

The Comstock Lode Saloon was as outrageous as the rest of the town. About two hundred men squeezed into the huge main room, some gambling, some playing pool, others dancing with saloon girls, and everybody drinking. A three-piece band played in a corner, and a woman danced seductively on a platform by herself. If her dance was meant to encourage men to take harlots upstairs, she was doing her job superbly.

I ambled up to a bar crowded with dozens of other men and eventually was able to order a beer. When the bartender brought my brew, I asked, “What’s all the shooting about?”

“It’s a contest.”

“Can anyone compete?”

He looked me up and down in my eastern suit and starched white shirt and chuckled. “It costs at least one dollar to get a turn. Maybe more if there’s a lot of takers.”

“Can I just wander back?”

“Sure.” Without further instructions, he left me to serve the endless stream of shouting miners that lined the bar.

I picked up my beer and walked toward the rear of the saloon. A burly man stood by the back door, so I said, “I heard anyone with a dollar can join the fun.”

Without a word, he opened the door.

Outside, about a dozen men watched another man get ready to shoot. They all had their backs to the door, so nobody noticed me. Hay bales had been stacked along the rear of the lot to provide a shield, and I supposed the neighbors appreciated the courtesy. In front of the hay, an elevated board held up six brown whiskey bottles, the obvious targets for the shooting contest. Under the raw-lumber board, deep piles of glass shards covered the barren dirt. The bottles stood about twenty feet from a row of three bricks on the ground that evidently marked the shooting line.

I moved closer to the spectators, but nobody threw me a glance. This was evidently not a quick-draw contest, because the shooter had his gun out and took careful aim before his first shot. In rapid fire, he shot at the six bottles, hiting only three. A boy of about fourteen immediately ran out to replace the three broken bottles.

Washburn emerged from amongst the crowd and patted the shooter on the shoulder. “Nice try. I surely don’t know if I can beat that.”

This drew a round of laughter, and Washburn stepped up to the brick line. He looked dapper in his trademark gray suit, accented with a gray bowtie and even gray boots. He steadied his hand at about his belt buckle and then in a flash, he drew and fired six rapid shots. Five of the six bottles exploded. Everybody hooted and hollered and whistled.

When the men settled down, Washburn said, “Well, hell, must be losing my touch. Someone else better challenge me while my aim’s off.”

I needed the advantage of surprise, so I tried to step quickly around the spectators to make my challenge. Damn. Someone else grabbed the shooting position first. I quickly slipped behind another onlooker and glanced around with growing apprehension. I was in Washburn’s terrain, and I was surrounded by his admirers. The rowdy crowd looked mean and more than a little drunk. If things did not go exactly as I had planned, I was not going to leave this yard alive.

The new contestant had drunk too many beers and didn’t hit another bottle after his first shot. Washburn good-naturedly slapped the man on the back and raised his gun high in the air. “How ’bout it?” he yelled. “Should I give the man a chance and shoot left-handed?”

Everybody yelled and whooped, and Washburn deftly flipped his six-shooter to his other hand. He paused theatrically and then whirled to blast four of the bottles in the blink of an eye. He was good—possibly better than me.

I needed to get this over with, or my nerves might fail. As Washburn reloaded, I elbowed my way forward to the front of the crowd.

“Mr. Washburn, I’d like a try.”

Chapter 51

When Washburn spotted me, he raised an eyebrow but kept his composure. “Mr. Dancy. Well, I’ll be.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “Gentlemen, may I introduce you to the killer of the infamous Cutler brothers?”

He grabbed my left shoulder and turned me toward the crowd. “Mr. Steve Dancy killed two ruffians at the same time in the streets of Pickhandle Gulch and became known throughout the land.” Washburn patted me on the back. “Shows how easy it is to build a reputation in this wilderness. All ya gotta do is kill a couple of inbred jackasses, and men in these parts start thinkin’ you’re a gunfighter.”

Everyone laughed as if Washburn had said something funny. He reveled in the attention for a few moments and then stood back and appeared to appraise me. “Are you a gunfighter, Mr. Dancy?”

I merely reached into my pocket and pulled out Sam’s hundred dollars and held it up for everyone to see. “I heard that you give five-to-one odds.”

Washburn eyed the bankroll and then yelled, “Clyde, take this man’s money!”

The sheriff of Pickhandle Gulch immediately emerged from the surrounding men and grabbed the bills out of my hand. “With pleasure, Sean.”

“Go to hell.” But I could see from his nervous glance at Washburn that he hadn’t told his boss about my offer to buy his half of the Grand Hotel.

I turned back to Washburn and casually said, “I’d like to see the five hundred dollars before I shoot.”

Washburn put on a huge grin. “Ya don’t trust me? Why, you’ve hurt my feelin’s.” Again, all of his camp followers laughed uproariously. I was not in sympathetic company.

“I intend to hurt more than just your feelings,” I said loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Well, Mr. Dancy, I’m more than happy to take your hundred dollars, but we frown on gunfightin’ here. I’m a businessman and town father in Virginia City. Despite my desire to accommodate you, I need to keep my good reputation with our police chief.”

“Let me see.” I reached into my inside coat pocket, pulled out the little black book, and flipped it to a random page. “Sean Washburn? Yes, I believe I have that right.”

For the first time, Washburn flinched. It was fleeting, but I caught it. He recognized the notebook as the one Sharp had been talking about all over town.

“Am I?” I pulled it out and opened it again. “Two contracts between Bill Sprague and Sean Washburn. One completed for twenty thousand dollars and another for ten thousand dollars … uncompleted, I might add.” I snapped the book closed and slid it back into my pocket.