Flames of silver, p.20
Flames of Silver, page 20
“And I can’t imagine why a fraidy-cat like you would risk life and limb to pull me out. You go saddle up my horse. I want to get to town.”
“For church services? We’d probably miss them since it’d be early afternoon when we got in.”
Duggan made a few disparaging remarks and tried to stand again.
“I need the doc. It pains me to say it, but I need that sawbones something fierce.”
Mason helped Duggan from the cabin to a stump outside where he could sit until his horse could be saddled and brought by.
“It looks like everything pains you,” Mason said. “Set a spell. I’ll be back before you know it.”
He prepared Duggan’s horse and cut a few lengths of rope in case he had to tie the old man into the saddle. That would be humiliating but not as bad as slinging him belly down over the saddle and taking him into Virginia City that way. From all the man’s previous ranting about doctors in general and Sinclair in particular, Duggan had to be in serious pain to relent. But as Mason helped him up into the saddle, he didn’t seem too uncomfortable.
They rode into town at a steady clip. Duggan kept up his side of sporadic conversation, but Mason saw the ride was draining the energy like water out of a leaky rain barrel. Nothing much showed at any instant, but mile after mile Duggan became less sharp and clung to the saddle horn with both hands. Just as Mason considered tying him down, they arrived at Dr. Sinclair’s office.
To his relief, Mason saw the door was open for ventilation.
“We’re here. It’s a good thing you left your arsenal back at the cabin. Otherwise, you’d be too heavy for me to help you down without dropping you.” Mason caught Duggan around the waist and lifted. The miner was as light as a feather.
“Didn’t expect to see either of you again,” the doctor said from the doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb, smoking a cigarillo. He studied Duggan as Mason helped him over. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m just looking for a cheap place to sleep tonight.” Duggan tried to spit, but his mouth was too dry.
“You still owe me from your last visit, but there’s something to what you say about getting a bed. The town’s overflowing with miners come to wave goodbye to their silver tomorrow morning bright and early. There’s not a hotel room left in Virginia City. There might not even be any beds in the cribs, since I’ve heard some folks are shacking up with the soiled doves overnight because of the hotels being so crowded.” Sinclair stubbed out his smoke. “That’ll be more business for me in a week or two, maybe next month.”
Mason looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Sinclair grinned crookedly and helped with Duggan as he said, “The new cases of the clap and the drip and the French disease will be impressive in size. I’ve put in an order from San Francisco for mercury skin inunction and as much astragalus as I can find. No pharmacist has any cypridol, so—”
“What can you do for him, Doctor?” Mason had no desire to hear all the cures the doctor considered.
Sinclair’s face lost all emotion. He steered a quiet Duggan to the back room. When he returned, he looked grim.
“I’ve seen men look this way before. There’s nothing I can do for him, I’m afraid.”
“But he got over a fever. And came back strong after losing his leg and getting his fool head bashed in!”
“That,” the doctor said, “is the problem. Each sapped his strength just a little. Rattling along one after the other like cars on a freight train, well, he wasn’t able to recuperate. Did you see his eyes?”
“They looked yellow.”
“Jaundice,” Sinclair said. “I have some liver remedy that might let him rest easier. It’s got enough cocaine in it to calm a bucking bronc. Otherwise, there’s not much to do but to let him rest.” Sinclair brightened a little. “He might snap back. He’s a determined cuss.”
“On the ride in, he kept saying he wanted to die with his boots off. He thought that was the mark of a rich man.” Mason saw that Duggan was convincing himself to die, and no one could blame him after all he had been through.
Sinclair said nothing, but the glum expression told of hearing such things from other patients. Mason guessed what the outcomes were in those cases. Sometimes a man knew when his time was up.
But his wasn’t.
He bade Duggan goodbye, though the man was drifting off to sleep. He dropped a sack of silver ore on the doctor’s desk and said, “That covers his bill.”
Sinclair peered into one and said, “You dig it out yourself? I noticed the broken nails and dirt worked into your palms.”
“It’s his ore. It came from the Mira Nell.” With that, Mason left. It was twilight, and Ammer was either closed for the day or fixing to close. He needed his job back, but after even a few days where he failed to show up for work, the telegrapher had replaced him. With any luck, he wasn’t entirely cast adrift again.
He presented himself at the fire station, where Delahunt shouted and carried on as he sent the fire watchers out on their nightly vigils. Mason wondered if the captain would ask for his belt buckle or suspenders first. The shirt would come off his back later.
“You!” Delahunt pointed. “You get on up to A Street. There and Howard. Look sharp. There’s a passel of men waving their six-shooters around.”
“The silver caravan leaves in the morning,” Mason said.
“Get going. I’ve got to be sure the pumper is working. The seals are leaking.”
Mason stared in wonder. Luck? Or had Delahunt simply not noticed he’d missed so many nights on fire watch? Whatever the reason, he threw the fire captain a quick salute and headed uphill. When he started his fire watch, this would have been considered a promotion. These streets were lined with saloons and businesses that ran around the clock. Only at the extreme ends of the streets were the buildings closed and dark and less likely to have anyone see a fire and give alarm. He touched the whistle as he walked away from the Wells Fargo office and bank, into more deserted territory. He patrolled an area where he wasn’t likely to need to blow an alarm.
Two hours into his watch, Mason hiked along Howard Street and considered passing along the duty to another volunteer. The loud music and boisterous laughter from saloons at the other end of the street drew him, but something caused him to feel uneasy enough to make one last check on a particular building. Mason saw a shadow moving about inside. It might be the shop’s proprietor, but if so, the man moved furtively, hiding the candlelight and turning away from windows if there was a chance he might be seen.
Mason realized he might imagine all this since he was certain a firebug was running rampant in Virginia City. He was the only one who did. Edging closer to a window, he chanced a quick peek inside. He caught his breath.
The shadowy figure worked to pile paper and other debris in the middle of the room. The candle guttered on a nearby table. With this much fuel, the smallest spark would ignite the shop and take the buildings next to it in a flash.
Not thinking of personal danger, he turned sideways and flung himself through the window. With a loud crash and a groan he hit the floor. Mason got his feet under him and yelled, “Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!”
He went for the six-gun at his hip. His fingers brushed his leather holster, but he couldn’t drag out his iron. The firebug crashed into him and knocked him backward. They landed in a heap. Powerful fists pummeled his head and shoulders as he writhed about. Somehow he drew and jerked back on the trigger. The loud report deafened him and startled his attacker. The brief cessation of punches gave Mason the opening he needed. He arched his back and heaved hard. The man rolled away.
“Stop. Give up or I’ll shoot.” Mason lay on his side, but his gun hand was free now, and he pointed his pistol at the arsonist.
“You don’t have it in you, you yellow belly!” The man reared up like a bear on its hind legs.
A thousand images flashed through Mason’s mind. Fists hammering at him. A boot sliding forward in an off-balance kick. Dark clothing. And a bright brass buckle. A fireman’s buckle.
He fired point-blank into the man’s belly. Mason was shocked when the round didn’t stop his attacker. A brilliant streak of white lightning exploded off the man’s body instead.
“My buckle!” The fireman attacking him reached to the spot where Mason’s slug had ripped away part of the buckle, saving him from injury.
Mason shook off his shock and fired again. This time his attacker grunted in pain, but his meaty fist was already on the way. Bone connected with the side of Mason’s head, knocking him flat. A boot followed. Then a rain of blows fell on him like retribution from heaven above. He got off another shot, but it went into the floor. Then came a punch that drove him around the bend into blindness.
He shook his head to clear it, but the muzziness remained. In the dark it was hard to tell, but he thought his eyes refused to focus. Everything looked doubled. He moaned and tried to sit up, only to find his arms and legs refused to move.
With a convulsive jerk, he flopped around like a fish out of water. His wrists and feet were securely tied. Straining with all his strength to break the ropes did nothing but cut his wrists and cause blood to sluggishly flow. Mason kicked and got himself upright to lean back against the table.
He coughed and as he blinked his eyes in an attempt to clear them, smoke burned until tears ran down his cheeks.
“Fire!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, but who was there to hear him? Wrenching about, he tried to get the fire whistle between his lips. It flopped about on its string around his neck. As he twisted, he fell onto his side.
The smoldering pile of paper and debris lit up as sparks turned to flames. He was trapped and unable to escape or even warn anyone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Morgan Mason wiggled like a worm toward the fire. The heat first warmed his face, then raised blisters as sparks landed on his cheeks. He ignored it as he half lifted himself from the floor and then landed smack in the middle of the fire. For an instant, he thought he had scattered the fuel. Then the flames leaped up all around him, burning his clothing and tearing at his exposed flesh.
If he had flailed about before, now he fought like a trout being reeled in. To no avail. He felt his strength fading as pain grew all over. In a strangely detached fashion, he wondered why his red shirt wasn’t even smoldering. Then he remembered hearing someone—Jasper Jessup?—make the outrageous claim that the shirts were woven with asbestos to protect firemen.
“Chrysotile,” he gasped out. The geologist in him died hard. But it would die. He would die.
He cried out as he flew through the air and landed hard, stunning him. He barely saw through his smoke-teared eyes, but someone moved above him. Past him. To the fire.
“There,” came a familiar voice.
“All of it?” Another familiar voice but he wasn’t able to remember where he had heard it before. His brain was too jumbled.
“Of course, all of it. This is no time for half measures.”
Water cascaded over him and onto the fire like a tidal wave. He sputtered and shook off the droplets like a wet dog. His eyes were free of the burning smoke for the first time. The pile of rubble sent up white curls of mist. The fire had been put out by being deluged with the contents of a rain barrel.
“Come along now. You need some fresh air.” Strong hands slipped under his armpits and dragged him out into the street. He gasped and took in several deep breaths of revitalizing air. In the distance came the clang of an approaching fire engine. He heard the horse pulling the truck, the loud shouts of firemen hanging from leather straps on the sides, the creak and groan of wood as the pumper came closer.
“All taken care of,” he said. “But I didn’t blow the whistle. I . . . I shot him. The firebug who set this fire. He left me to die.”
“Here’s your pistol.” As if by magic, his holster filled with three pounds of six-gun. “It won’t do to have them find you all trussed up.” A knife snick severed the ropes on his feet. The strong hands that had lifted him inside the shop again pulled him upright.
He staggered along into an alley across the street, but a dainty foot thrust out and tripped him. Mason rolled onto his back. In the light from along Howard Street, Emma Longview stared down at him.
“You saved me.”
She cracked her knuckles, stepped closer to avoid being seen by the firemen and towered over him. She rested her fists on flaring hips and shook her head slowly, disapprovingly.
“Whatever shall I do with you?”
He almost blurted out he had seen her and Slick in the mine, then realized he might have his six-shooter back but his hands were still secured behind his back. Mason said nothing.
Emma looked down the street and said, “There wasn’t much of a fire for them to put out.” She stamped her foot, then motioned. “Get in here. Don’t let anyone see you.”
“They’re off to get soused,” Slick said. “You’re such a brave man, putting out a fire this one started.” The gunman came into the alleyway and shoved his captive hard. He sent Captain Finley to his knees.
“You’re the one,” Mason said. There wasn’t much light, but he saw where his bullet had ricocheted off the fire captain’s belt buckle. “You set the fires and tried to kill me.”
“You shouldn’t have meddled.”
Mason started to demand an answer to why the fireman set the fires, but he knew.
“You wanted the glory. You wanted all the glory and couldn’t stand that Captain Delahunt was a better fireman.”
“He’s a Johnny-come-lately. What’s he know? This was my town until he started his rival company.”
“But his is number one,” Mason said, then realized this was part of the battle between them. “He was voted in the top spot, and you weren’t.”
“Our good captain here found a way to be first at the fires. He started them himself. His men were told to go out at a certain time.” Emma fished around in the captain’s pocket and pulled out a large watch. She held it up so it turned slowly in the dim light. “This is a very precise watch, I suspect. Whoever your partner is had a duplicate and was told to get the company rolling at a precise time to a location you both agreed would be torched.” Emma seemed mesmerized by the spinning gold watch.
“You don’t have anything on me. His word? Pah! Who’d believe an apprentice against a fire captain?”
“I don’t understand why you stopped him,” Mason said. “All you needed to do was let the marshal know. He’d believe you.”
“Yeah, sure, tell the marshal,” scoffed Slick. “Come on, Emma. We’ve got to get back to . . .”
Mason almost blurted out, The mine! He had learned to hold his tongue.
Emma pressed her finger against her lover’s lips to silence him.
“I know, I know.”
“We should take care of him.” Slick drew his six-shooter in a move so fast Mason saw only a blur. The pistol was cocked and pointed directly at Finley.
“Go on. I’ll handle this,” she said. She shooed him off. She balanced the watch in her left hand. “You don’t need to know anything, Morgan.”
He swelled a bit. She remembered his name.
“Why did you save me?”
“I had to put the fire out. This fool kept setting fires closer to the bank. Burning it down was never in the cards.”
“You’re a Pinkerton agent. You and Slick and the rest?” It didn’t make sense, and yet it did.
“You know his name. Oh, my. Perhaps I should have let you burn, Morgan. But no. You don’t deserve that.”
“Your hired gun’s gone off. How are you going to stop me?” Finley stood, a hulking man made stronger by his work as a fireman. He reached for Emma Longview.
She laughed lightly and stood her ground.
“Men like you never learn, do you?” She mocked him.
Mason jumped when a gunshot rang out. Finley took another step. A second shot brought him down. Emma held a .45 derringer in her right hand. She tucked it back into the folds of her skirt and looked at him.
“Here’s a souvenir, Morgan.” She tossed Finley’s watch into his lap and blew him a kiss. With a swirl of skirts, she spun and disappeared, leaving Mason with the dead fire captain.
He heaved himself up to his knees, then used a wall to stand. He propped his shoulder against the building until he was steadier. Twisting and turning failed to loosen his bonds. Mason looked with distaste at the dead fire captain. A knife in a sheath at the man’s belt gave the only way to get free, but he had to drop back and wiggle over the corpse to get the knife.
Mason kept telling himself he had done braver things. Rescuing Duggan from the burning building, fighting the claim jumpers back at the Mira Nell Mine, all his daring exploration on the far side of the mountain.
“Emma,” he whispered. “What are you up to?” His fingers closed on the hilt. It took forever to slip the blade from its sheath and even longer to brace the knife against the dead body so he could cut the ropes.
Mason gasped in relief when the last strand parted and circulation rushed back into his numbed fingers. He rubbed his hands and then shot to his feet to get away from Finley’s body. Emma had shot the fire captain twice, the bullet holes only an inch apart. She was a true marksman and had not panicked when attacked. Mason remembered how he had felt when he had been in the gun fight. Panic hardly described it. And afterward—still—he felt remorse at taking a life.
Emma Longview hadn’t batted an eye when she shot Finley. If the death was anything to her, it was a mere inconvenience, nothing too important.
Mason picked up the watch and held it as she had, wondering if the spinning gold timepiece somehow hypnotized and allowed such easy killing. The movement did nothing to fill him with courage. He tucked it into his pocket and backed out of the alley, as if Finley might come to life and accuse him of murder. The fireman never stirred. He was dead, very dead.
