Flames of silver, p.13
Flames of Silver, page 13
He led his mare away, toward the bank. The Wells Fargo office had sustained some scorching, but the bank hadn’t a smudge on it showing the fire had started here. He swelled up, chest puffed out and gut pulled in, when he saw Emma Longview talking earnestly with Captain Delahunt. If he had a lick of sense, he’d go scrape up a cheap meal and then bed down once more in the livery stable until Ammer paid him.
That was if he had any sense and wanted to avoid the humiliation of being ignored by the lovely brunette and the Virginia City hero.
He tried not to look too much in a hurry as he went to the bank. Emma heard Victoria whinny and turned to see him leading the mare. For a moment, her expression was unreadable, then she brightened and rushed to him, not giving the fireman so much as a fare-thee-well.
“Mr. Mason! It’s so good to see you again.” She took his hands in hers and squeezed with more than casual greeting. He noted how callused her hands were. Most women with Emma Longview’s looks were strangers to hard work. She had put in quite a few hours to get those otherwise dainty hands so work-hardened.
“Miss Longview. I heard there was another fire and came to see if there was anything I could do. You weren’t harmed, were you?”
“The bank is untouched,” she said, looking over her shoulder. Her tone conveyed immense relief. “And the good captain is convinced this was an attempted arson.” She started to say something more, but someone behind him caught her attention. She waved. Before Mason swiveled around to see who merited such a greeting, she took his hands again and tugged him around to face her. “We must talk, but later. Your services might be exactly what I require since that dunderhead Wilson has again refused to examine my rock samples in a timely fashion.”
“You mean he won’t do yours first?” Mason caught his breath. He set off a flare of anger in her, and he thought it was because he hit the bull’s-eye. She was not a woman who failed to get her way.
“Later . . . Morgan,” she said in a low, intimate voice. Her smile would have melted all the snow on the Sierras. Then she rushed off.
He tried to see who commanded her presence, but the street leading to the bank was empty. Whoever she had signaled already moved on.
While Delahunt wasn’t as intriguing a person as Emma Longview, Mason wanted to have a few words with him.
“Captain, I saw the fire and sent a telegraphic message to Mr. Ammer. Was he able to alert you?”
“Two of the firemen saw the first puffs of smoke and sounded the alarm. Mr. Ammer’s warning—yours—wasn’t required. But thank you.”
“Miss Longview suggested it was set intentionally. Is that so?”
“She was quite upset over that.” Delahunt moved closer and put his arm around Mason’s shoulders to draw him close. “I remember hearing you say that you tangled with a firebug. Is that so?”
“I tried to convince Marshal Benteen, but he showed no interest in finding out if I was mistaken.”
“You don’t think you were, do you? You’re certain you saw someone set a fire?” The captain steered Mason toward the bank.
A few discolored spots on the bank walls showed where small fires had been set. If Mason hadn’t seen the pristine walls before, he would never have noticed the scorching now.
“More than once. A second time, someone clobbered me with a rock. The first time I fear that a falling beam cost Blue Dirt Duggan his leg.”
“The owner of the Mira Nell Mine? I heard that, and that you rescued him. Of course you did. I knew that. This has been a trying time for me, working almost around the clock. Makes it hard to keep up with all the gossip the way I should.”
“That is unusual?” Mason tied Victoria to an iron ring mounted at the corner of the bank.
“I try to act as fire marshal, also, but most of my time has been spent putting out fires. We lost several brigade members.”
“To the fires?” Mason perked up. “If they are the victims of an arsonist, this must, excuse the expression, light a fire under the marshal.”
“No, no, they moved on to another rumored gold strike to the north. Miners are one breed; prospectors are another. I should never have approved them, knowing they weren’t likely to stay in town very long.”
Mason kicked at the spot where a fire had started and pointed out how the fuel—dried brush—had been stacked. He did his best to let the captain know he understood the chemistry of flame and how to snuff it out. Oxygen, fuel, heat. Remove one and the fire died. Delahunt nodded in agreement with all he said. Mason felt as if he were back in school trying to impress the teacher with his knowledge.
And perhaps he was. Delahunt took him around to the bank’s locked front door. The fireman banged on it until a man wearing a fancy suit opened the door a crack and peered out. Mason saw a six-gun in his hand.
“Oh, it’s you, Captain Delahunt. Are you ready now for your examination?”
“This is Mr. Bronfeld, the bank president,” he introduced. “This is a consultant, sir.”
Mason looked around, then realized Delahunt was introducing him as the “consultant.” He touched the brim of his bowler and wished he had both bathed and changed his clothing to look more presentable.
“Come in, come in. Hurry.” Bronfeld swung the heavy door wide, letting his visitors in. He slammed and bolted it behind them.
“I’m checking the bank in my position as fire marshal,” Delahunt said in a confidential tone. Louder, to the banker, “Before examining the walls where the fires were so expertly extinguished by Fire Brigade No. 1, let me examine the vault.”
Mason saw how the banker bristled at this. He clutched his six-shooter tighter, and denial started to form on his lips.
“Come now, Mr. Bronfeld, one man cannot jeopardize your vault. Would I bring such an outlaw in with me, working under my personal guarantee?”
“No, no, of course not.” Bronfeld’s words said one thing, but the tenseness in his body screamed another. Mason had an idea to put the man’s mind at rest.
“Sir, please hold my six-gun for me while I crawl about.” He waited to be sure the banker didn’t gun him down as he reached for his weapon. Holding the butt by thumb and forefinger, he passed it over. The banker now held two six-shooters. Even then he wasn’t entirely at ease, but his suspicion faded. A little.
“You must realize how anxious I am about the forthcoming shipment.”
“I saw your advertisement for a hundred guards. That’s quite an army,” Mason said.
“Quite an army, yes, but even then I’m not confident it will be enough. I am considering sending a request to Fort Halleck, but the army has been notoriously reluctant to provide protection.”
“They chase the Paiutes around,” said Delahunt, “and have often claimed guarding shipments is the job of Wells Fargo, not the cavalry.”
Mason started to relate what the man looking at the broadside asking for guards had said about outlaws signing up to steal only one wagon, then held his tongue. The shipment’s protection was Bronfeld’s problem. Mason had plenty of his own. The way his belly growled from lack of food was only one.
“Come along,” Delahunt said briskly. He herded Mason toward the vault. Mason pushed through a gate in a low railing separating the officers’ desks from the lobby and faced the vault. He swallowed hard. Fortifications back in San Francisco at Fort Point weren’t this stout, and that Civil War fort commanded the span across the wide Golden Gate. He stepped forward and ran his hand over the thick concrete walls, as if testing them for give. Giving up trying to budge the walls, he shifted his attention to the steel portal. The heavy vault door with a complicated mechanism was beyond his ability to understand. Sliding bolts operated by the combination lock on front fastened securely in the concrete walls.
“There’s a special time device to be certain the door only opens during banking hours,” Bronfeld said proudly. “Even knowing the combination will not allow anyone to enter until the timer allows it.”
“Even you?” Mason was impressed.
“Even me, sir.”
Mason and Delahunt examined the walls around the vault. It shared no external wall. The four walls were as secure as anything Mason had ever seen. He let Delahunt boost him up to examine the top of the vault. He had thought the bank building’s roof was secure. The vault was even more secure. If the building collapsed, it would hardly scratch the vault itself.
“Do you see any fire hazards?” Delahunt poked around the desks and shuffled papers into stacks, but otherwise did nothing significant.
“I might be able to blow open the vault with enough explosives, but there’s no threat of fire I can see.” Mason rubbed his hands against his pants legs and took a final look at the sturdy vault.
“You know of such things? Dynamite?”
“I’m a chemist,” Mason said. “I also work as a geologist, so I know a little about it, but I’ve left such things to mining engineers.”
“You give the bank a good grade, then?”
Mason looked at Delahunt, wondering why the fireman wanted to hear his report. If he was a fire marshal, he had more expertise, but Mason had seen no hint of a way to breach the vault. Fires could be set inside the bank and the stolid construction insured the contents were safe.
“I do,” he said.
“That’s a relief, gentlemen,” Bronfeld said. “The mines will start storing their shipments here in a few days.”
“Is the vault large enough to hold a ton of silver?” Mason tried to estimate the size required for such a vast weight. Without seeing the vault interior he was at a loss.
“Easily that,” Bronfeld said. “And that’s not an accurate weight.”
Mason smiled. “Less?”
His eyes widened when Bronfeld replied, “More. Much more.” He handed Mason back his six-shooter.
The Comstock Lode was bursting at the seams with silver destined for San Francisco and banks beyond.
“That’s fifty dollars, sir,” Delahunt said. Mason watched the banker count out two twenty-dollar gold pieces and ten cartwheels. The fireman stuffed the money into his vest pocket and, as before, herded Mason ahead of him.
They stepped out into the cool evening. Even the trace of smoke that had lingered from the afternoon fire was gone.
“I appreciate your help. Without you, I couldn’t have gotten half that from him. Saying you know about explosives and soothing his feathers over anyone blowing open the vault doubled my fee.”
“Glad to be of help.” Mason untied his horse’s reins, but had no chance to mount. The fire brigade captain pressed close.
“Let me buy you dinner. There’s something more I’d like to discuss with you.”
“What’s that, Captain?” Mason wondered if he might work as an assistant fire marshal. Seeing how much Delahunt had received for a cursory examination of the bank might have him rolling in the clover if he could share in that wealth. What Delahunt said surprised him even more.
“I’d like to recruit you as a volunteer fireman. Fire Brigade No. 1 can use men of your expertise and honesty.”
Mason struggled to answer. He saw how the firemen were held in high esteem in Virginia City. They were at the top of the social ladder. Putting out fires was dangerous work, and the adulation was deserved, but everyone had told him this was an honor above all others in the town.
“If you buy me dinner, you’re likely thinking that I’ll say yes,” he said.
Delahunt was agreeable, and Morgan Mason thought not only of food in his stomach but increased social standing to impress Emma Longview.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A heavy boot poking insistently against his ribs woke him. Morgan Mason rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up, slumped forward. For a moment he didn’t remember where he was. Then everything tumbled back. He jerked upright, then got to his feet to face Captain Delahunt.
“Good morning, sir. Thanks for letting me sleep in the fire station last night.”
“Find yourself a permanent spot to sleep from now on. Don’t make it too far away, since all of No. 1’s volunteers have to be ready to man the pumps and get to a fire in less than ten minutes. That’s how we beat the other companies and save Virginia City every last time!”
Mason looked around. He hadn’t been the only one sleeping in the main room of the firehouse. This was where the social had been held. Now pumpers and other pieces of equipment he didn’t quite recognize were parked here. In a stable connected to the fire station, a half-dozen horses, including his Victoria, kicked and cried for food.
“I need to tend my horse,” he said.
“That you do. See to all the others, while you’re at it. Feed, water, curry. When you’re done, come back in and one of the members will begin your training. You need to know how to use the pump and the hook and ladder and wrestle the hose about. It gives quite a kick when the water begins to spew.”
“I’ve got a job at the telegraph office. I’ll lose it if I’m not there in two hours.”
“Better hurry and get started. There aren’t any slackers in Fire Brigade No. 1!” Delahunt made the rounds, rousting the others. Some he talked to for a minute, others he hardly disturbed.
“Why’s he play favorites?” Mason asked a smallish man who struggled to get into his pants. Somehow he had put them on backward. Mason wasn’t sure if he ought to point this out or let the man discover it for himself the first time he had to unbutton the fly.
“Not favorites. Some of the men were up all night watching for fires. The captain’s lettin’ them sleep a bit longer.”
“You look like you had a hard night. Were you on watch, too?” Mason finished buttoning his shoes and got to his feet. The last muzziness of his deep sleep had passed.
“Out carousin’. Let me give you a hand with the horses. If you got a job, maybe you can put in a good word with your boss. Since we’re both firemen and all.”
“I’ll see what Mr. Ammer has to say.” Mason doubted the telegrapher would consider the man if he drank like a fish and ended up still half-soused in the morning. “Were you celebrating anything special?”
“Every night you don’t get burned up is special,” the man said.
They took care of the horses, Mason watching what the other man did since he’d never owned a horse before. Other than the boy at the livery stable, he hadn’t even seen how horses were groomed. Living in a city like San Francisco had advantages. He hadn’t needed a horse to take the trolley across town. A few times he had hired a hansom cab. Getting a gentle mare like Victoria allowed him to climb up and ride without fear of being thrown off, though he was unsure about riding at a gallop. That appeared more difficult than simply keeping his seat as the horse walked along or even cantered.
“I wish I had time to go to the doctor’s office. A friend of mine’s in a bad way after a mine collapse.”
“Happens all the time. Did he get out in one piece? If he did, that’s unusual. Mostly, if the cave-in’s bad enough, they seal the shaft and drill a new one.” The man finished grooming the last of the team that pulled the pumper wagon. He stepped back and nodded in approval at the sheen he had brought to the horse’s flanks. “Not a bad way to go, if you ask me. Who wants to be buried down in the cemetery under a tiny marker, if you get that much, when you can have an entire mountain as a monument?”
“Doesn’t the brigade provide a decent burial?”
“Not really. Too many of us get burned up. Who wants to bother with burying a cinder? I’ve got to go.” He paused at the mouth of the stall. “Don’t forget to ask if there’s a job for me. One fireman to another.”
“Wait!” Mason tried to stop him. If the man wanted a job, he could apply in person. But he had vanished as if made from smoke. Mason made sure Victoria got an apple from a crate of the treats, then indulged himself. The horse appreciated the bitter apple more than her owner, but it was going to be the only breakfast he could expect. He tucked another apple into his pocket before returning to the firehouse for his first lesson in firefighting.
It turned out to be an hour of polishing brass and cleaning the fire hose with no real instruction in putting out fires. He resigned himself to doing the tedious work passed off to him by others. There had to be an apprenticeship before acceptance as a full-fledged member of this Virginia City elite society.
“Be back by sundown,” Delahunt called after him as he rode away. He waved, then fished out the apple he had taken from the bin. A single bite convinced him to give it to his horse. Victoria was far more appreciative of this treat.
The door of the telegraph office stood ajar when he rode up. At first he worried that something was wrong since the Wells Fargo office and the bank were still closed. Then he heard the click-click of the telegraph key inside. When he stopped just outside, the heavy sulfuric acid odor made him giddy. Ammer kept the door open for ventilation. Mason stepped in and saw the telegrapher working furiously on the key.
“Lot of traffic today. There’s a stack of ’grams. Deliver them, then get out on the south wire again. I’m getting static with traffic from that direction. Did you repair that line properly yesterday? Never mind. Go, go.”
Mason got. He snatched up the stack of yellow envelopes stuffed with telegrams. A quick riffle through them showed deliveries had to be made all over town. That suited him fine. A few minutes rearranging the envelopes gave him the chance to make a wide circuit through town without having to backtrack. Down one street, drop a level and back along it, then zigzag once more on still lower levels.
Three hours of riding later brought him to Dr. Sinclair’s office. He had intended to see how Duggan fared before this, but too much had happened. Telling Duggan all his news puffed him up to the bursting point. He needed someone to share all the events of the past couple days.
