Quincannon (11 page)

Something moved in the shadows behind him.

He heard the sound, knew it as the scraping of a bootsole, and came around swiftly, drawing his weapon as he did. But he still was not quick enough. There were two of them, blobs of black rushing toward him from the side wall; the smaller one hit him first, a glancing blow over his right eye. He grunted and staggered sideways with the stench of the man’s rancid breath in his nostrils. The second one slashed him across the side of the neck with what must have been a gun barrel. He went to his knees, his senses jarred awry. Tried to get up and couldn’t find the strength.

The smaller man kicked him in the side, toppling and rolling him, then kicked him twice more and drove him up against the building wall. The pain brought a groaning sound out of his throat. Distantly, through the blood pulsing in his ears, he could hear the two of them talking in low, urgent whispers.

“That’s enough. We make any more noise, some of the other Chinamen might hear.”

“Hell with them yella-skinned bastards.” Another vicious kick, in the stomach this time, that brought up the whiskey Qain-cannon had drunk earlier.

“That’s enough, I said! We got what we come for. You want to be seen now, for Christ’s sake?”

Shuffling noises on the hard-packed earth. A muttered epithet. And then the sounds of them moving away, sounds that faded and were lost in the humming and buzzing in his ears.

He lay there hurting, only half conscious, for a space of time. Then he was on his knees, vomiting again. Then he was groping his way up the rough clapboards, leaning against them and holding on for fear his shaking legs would give way under him. Something wet, blood or sweat, flowed down over one cheek and dripped off the end of his chin. He didn’t bother to wipe it off — just stood there shivering in the cold wind. It was another minute or two before the pulsing inside his head went away and his thoughts settled and he was able to think rationally again.

We got what we comefor.

Quincannon pushed away from the wall, stumbled but held his balance. He touched the holster under his coat, found it empty and dimly recalled the revolver being knocked from his hand; it was somewhere on the ground, hidden now in the darkness. Find it later, he thought, and moved back around the corner, toward the open door to Yum Wing’s quarters.

Inside, on a black-lacquered chest, an Aladdin lamp bathed the room in a dusky yellow glow. It let him see Yum Wing almost immediately. They had hung him from a support beam in one corner, at an outward angle so that his sandal-shod feet seemed braced against the wall. The expression on his dead face was ghastly in the pale light.

The rest of the room was a shambles; Yum Wing had put up a fight before he died.
We got what we come for.
The smell of death was strong in there, but it was another smell that Quincannon was remembering as he backed out of the room — the rancid stench of the small man’s breath.

Sudden Wheeler’s voice echoed across his mind:
Mean little. booger with bad teeth and breath that’d knock a man over at twenty rods.

Conrad, Whistling Dixon’s shirttail cousin.

Conrad, who now worked for Jack Bogardus at the Rattling Jack mine.

When Quincannon came downstairs at nine the next morning he found a message waiting at the hotel desk. Marshal Wendell McClew had sent word that he wanted to see Andrew Lyons in his office “any time before noon.”

He considered the request as he left the hotel. He doubted that it had anything to do with the murder of Yum Wing; he was reasonably certain that he hadn’t been seen leaving the Chinese quarter last night. If he was under suspicion for that or any other crime, McClew would not have sent a message; he would have come in person and either talked in Quincannon’s room or put him in custody. No, it was probably that McClew had heard about the questions he’d been asking, from Will Coffin perhaps, and wanted a first-hand explanation.

Quincannon walked up Jordan Street, moving at a retarded pace. His ribs ached and there were stabs of pain whenever he took any but shallow breaths. None of the ribs was broken or cracked, but half a dozen on his right side were badly bruised. Except for his slow movements, and a cut above one temple that he had treated with carbolic salve, he bore no outward signs of the beating he had taken at Yum Wing’s. But inside he carried a bitter rage that was thinly contained.

He reached the Wells Fargo office, entered to talk to the Western Union brass pounder. And finally found a wire waiting from Boggs. It was more fully coded than his own had been, for obvious reasons, but the telegrapher seemed to think nothing of it. Such codes were common among businessmen who preferred that their long-distance dealings remain private.

Quincannon folded the wire and tucked it into his coat pocket. The news that his fellow Service operative, Samuel Greenspan, was on his way from Seattle to Silver City was reassuring; matters here appeared to be escalating to the point where he would need as many allies as possible. It appeared that Marshal Wendell McClew might well be another one. The fact that McClew had a good record as a peace officer, and the added facts that he was a former captain with the Oregon Volunteers during the War Between the States, and had been twice decorated for bravery, testified in favor of his competency and his honesty.

The rest of Boggs’ information was eye-opening, and answered some of the questions that had arisen the past few days. Helen Truax and Jack Bogardus were both from Portland, where she had worked as a saloon hostess and he had been a mining labor agitator, among other dubious undertakings; and they had not only known each other there but had lived together four years ago. “Shared badger no con” meant that they had worked a version of the old badger game, in which an amorous married man’s indiscretion was used as grounds for blackmail, and had managed to escape criminal conviction. This put a new light on Helen Truax’s character. If Bogardus was one of the koniakers, as seemed more and more likely, and Mrs. Truax had taken up with him again here in Silver City, then it was conceivable that she, too, was involved in the boodle game.

The telegram suggested that there might also be another game afoot here, one in which Helen Truax could also be involved. “Regarding OT hint PMC possible fmfm” meant that Oliver Truax was apparently responsible for some sort of illegal manipulation or flimflam involving Paymaster Mining Company stock. Boggs hadn’t yet been able to find out what it was. If the allegation were true it explained Truax’s eagerness to sell Paymaster stock to the mythical Arthur Caldwell of San Francisco.

Was there a connection between the counterfeiting operation and the Paymaster flimflam? It seemed unlikely, considering the obvious hatred Truax and Jack Bogardus shared for each other. Yet Helen Truax was the wife of one man and the mistress, past and present, of the other....

Quincannon wanted another talk with her. And another talk with her husband. But both could wait until after he had responded to Marshal McClew’s summons, something he did not want to put off. Besides, there was a chance Boggs would wire him again today, and the more he knew, the easier it would be to deal with both of the Truaxes.

He sent a telegram to San Francisco, laboring over it to give Boggs the full measure of his suspicions about Bogardus and the Rattling Jack mine without sacrificing secrecy. He also asked that as many other federal officers as were available be sent to Boise on a standby basis. He had to have more proof against Bogardus before he would be justified in calling for a federal arrest warrant and then organizing a raid on the Rattling Jack. But the time when he would have sufficient justification, he felt, was not far off.

Leaving the Wells Fargo office, he went to a nearby saloon for a brace of whiskeys and a pickled egg. There was talk in the place of Yum Wing’s murder; the body had been found by other Chinese early this morning and word brought to the marshal’s office. No one seemed particularly stirred by the news. “Don’t make no difference who killed him,” the bartender said. “Did the community a service. Like it said in yesterday’s paper, opium’s filthy stuff; man who sells it ain’t no better than a dog.”

Quincannon left the bartender to his bias and walked over to Washington Street to the courthouse. The marshal’s office was in the basement; he passed under the sign that said JAIL, went down three steps and through a heavy ironbound door. McClew was the only occupant, seated at a battered kneehole desk with a mug of coffee and a plate of eggs and potatoes in front of him. Egg yolk stained his mustaches; a splatter of it had even somehow found its way onto the brim of his plug hat. He looked up as Quincannon entered, gestured with his fork toward a slat-backed chair near the desk, and went on eating.

Quincannon sat down. Somebody behind a closed door that would lead to the cellblock began yelling in a hoarse voice, “Marshal! Hey, Marshal! Goddamn it, where’s my goddamn breakfast? You promised me my goddamn breakfast two hours ago!”

McClew lifted his head and yelled over his shoulder, “Shut up, Dewey, or I’ll come in there and knock your goddamn head off your goddamn shoulders.” Dewey subsided. McClew nodded, said to Quincannon, “Drunks is bad enough when they’re drunk but they’re worse pains in the arse the morning after,” and forked a last bite of egg into his mouth. Then he finished his coffee, belched, used his tie to wipe the egg yolk off his mustaches (but not off is plug hat), and sat back comfortably with his hands folded over his middle.

“I am Andrew Lyons, Marshal,” Quincannon said.

“I gathered.” McClew studied him for a time. “Looks like you had yourself some trouble, son.”

“Trouble?”

“That cut on your head. And you move kind of stiff, like a man that’s been in a fight.”

Quincannon laughed. “I have a touch of lumbago. As for the cut ... well, I hesitate to admit it, but I fear I’m a bit clumsy. I tripped over the throw rug in my room last night and struck my head against the bedpost.”

“Uh-huh,” McClew said noncommittally. He gestured at a crusty old pot-bellied stove in one corner. “Coffee’s hot, if you’re interested.”

“Thanks, no. What was it you wanted to see me about, Marshal?”

“Questions,” McClew said.

“Sir?”

“Questions. The ones you been asking all over town.”

“About Whistling Dixon, you mean.”

“Among other folks. Awful lot of questions for a snake oil drummer, seems like.”

“I am not a snake oil drummer,” Quincannon said in offended tones. “I am an authorized representative of Caldwell Associates of San Francisco, agents for Dr. Wallmann’s Nerve and Brain Salts — a legitimate and highly respected patent medicine.”

McClew shrugged. “Still and all, you ask a lot of questions for
any
kind of drummer.”

“Whistling Dixon was a friend from many years ago. He worked for my father in Oregon when I was a boy.”

“Is that a fact.”

“Yes. Naturally I was upset when I learned he’d been murdered the very night I arrived in Silver City.”

“Naturally. So you figured you’d just ask around and see could you find out who done for him.”

“Yes.”

“How come you asked half the town but you never come and asked me? Seems the city marshal’s office’d be your first stop.”

“I tried several times to see you, Marshal,” Quincannon lied. “Our paths never seemed to cross.”

“Oh, come on now, Mr. Lyons,” McClew said mildly. “I ain’t all that hard to find. Most of the time I’m right here in my office.”

“Most of the time, perhaps. Not all the time. I’m sorry, but I did intend to talk to you. I would have come here this very morning, in fact, even if you hadn’t summoned me.”

“Well, I sure am happy to hear that,” McClew said without irony. He rummaged a plug of Rock Candy chewing tobacco out of his vest pocket, sliced off a chunk with a penknife, and popped the chunk into his mouth. He chewed in silence for several seconds, working the quid to a juiciness; then he leaned over, spat into a dented brass cuspidor, and said, “Nothing like a good chew after breakfast.”

“I prefer a pipe myself.”

“Pipes is all right, I guess.” The marshal spat again. “Tell me, Mr. Lyons, you find out anything about old Dixon’s murder I ought to know about?”

“No, nothing. I’ve been wasting my time, it seems.”

“Well, you must’ve found out
something.
You been seeing a lot of folks, asking about others besides Dixon. Jason Elder, for instance.”

“Elder was an acquaintance of Dixon’s and he seems to have disappeared. I thought perhaps there might be some connection between the two facts.”

“Such as maybe Elder shot that old waddy?”

“Such as that.”

“Where’d you hear them two was acquainted?”

“Here and there. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Never knew old Dixon to have any friends in town, least of all a tramp printer that smoked opium for a hobby.”

Quincannon spread his hands. “I only know what I heard. You don’t believe Elder might have murdered Dixon?”

“Nope.”

“Then who do you think
did
kill him?”

“Can’t say. Outlaws, maybe.”

“So then you haven’t learned anything definite, either.”

“Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t,” McClew said evasively. “I’m working on it.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Yep, always working, that’s me. I’m a working fool. Too much crime these days — too damned much.”

Quincannon was silent.

“You take murder, now,” McClew said. “Up until old Dixon got himself shot, we hadn’t had a murder in or about Silver City in close to five months. Now all of a sudden we got us a regular slaughter.”

“Slaughter, Marshal?”

“Well, maybe that’s too strong a word.” McClew fired another stream of tobacco juice at the cuspidor; this one missed completely and he said, “Hell.” Then he said, “Chinaman got himself hung last night. Important fella in that bunch, name of Yum Wing. You ever heard of him?”

“Yes. Will Coffin mentioned his name on the stage the other night. I also read Coffin’s editorial in yesterday’s
Volunteer.”

“You talk to him? Yum Wing, I mean.”

Quincannon hesitated, but only for a second. “I did, yes. I thought he might know what had happened to Jason Elder.”

“Because Elder was a dope fiend and old Yum Wing peddled the stuff.”

“Yes.”

“Did he know what had become of Elder?”

“If he did he wouldn’t tell me. Who do you think killed
him,
Marshal?”

“Can’t say yet. Figured maybe you’d have an idea.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Quincannon said. “Unless it was somebody who used Will Coffin’s editorial as an excuse to take the law into his own hands. A very inflammatory piece of writing, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would,” McClew agreed. “Could have happened that way, all right. Always a few damn fool hotheads looking to make trouble. And plenty of folks don’t like the Chinese because they got different ways and a different skin.” He paused. “What’s your feelings along them lines?”

“I think a man is a man, no matter what color his skin. I think he ought to be allowed to live his life as he sees fit, as long as he doesn’t harm anyone else.”

McClew seemed to approve of that. He had himself another spit, missed his target again, and then shook his head. “Three murders inside a week,” he said. “Yessir, that may not be enough to be called a slaughter, but it sure comes close enough in my book.”

“Three
murders?”

“Didn’t I mention the third one? No, I guess I didn’t. Sam Morant, works out at the Whiskey Gulch mine, spotted the corpse yesterday afternoon, down in a canyon off an old road ain’t used much anymore. Too many rockslides. But Sam ain’t got much sense and he uses it as a short cut to town. Anyways, he rode in and told me and I rode back out there with him and had a look. Had to leave the body where it laid, though.”