The Mother Lode (15 page)

“Oh, I think about it most all the time I'm awake, ma'am. They have a miners union up in Virginia City, and those fellas that go down in the deep mines earn four dollars a day. Can you imagine that! Why, four dollars a day is the highest miner's wages in the world. They got fellas comin' from the hard-rock mines in England, Ireland, and Wales. There are hundreds of men just itchin' for jobs at the big mines like the Consolidated and the Bullion. But that ain't the life for me. I always worked for myself and I don't like being out of sight of God's pure sunshine.”

“Amen,” Joe said. “I don't know how men can work that deep underground.”

“They do it strictly for the money,” the prospector said, taking the last deep drag on his cigarette. “But the Virginia City and Gold Hill cemeteries there are fillin' up fast from all the mine accidents. Men fallin' outa those flimsy cages, or slammin' their picks through a wall holding back boilin' water and gettin' scalded to death. Havin' tunnels and shafts collapse on 'em so deep under the ground that nobody even bothers to try and find 'em for a Christian burial. No, sir! I don't care if they do earn four dollars a day. I just can't do it. They say that some men go crazy in that hot hell down under the mountain, and I'm afraid I'd do the same.”

“Here,” Joe said, tossing the man his tobacco pouch and papers. “I'll buy some more up in Virginia City.”

“Thank you kindly,” the prospector said. “I'll take your gift in exchange for the advice I freely gave you both. Last thing I'll say is that everything up there is higher than the moon. Those three fine horses of yours? They'll cost a small fortune to board because anything and everything in Virginia City has to be hauled over from Lake's Crossing, or even all the way from Sacramento and San Francisco. That's why they're payin' those poor bastards four dollars a day to work in their deep-rock mines.”

Joe nodded with understanding and thanked the man for his time before they continued up the rocky road in Gold Canyon.

Later that afternoon, the canyon narrowed and they came to a place where it pinched in so tight that two big wagons would have had trouble passing through side by side. There was a line of freight wagons backed up, and a man was taking money from everyone that passed through his narrow portal.

“What is going on here?” Ellen asked.

Joe scowled. “Looks to me like someone thinks he can charge everyone money who goes through that narrow pass. Damned if he'll charge us, though.”

“Joe, if everyone else has to pay, then we probably will, too.”

“The hell with that,” Joe said, spurring his horse forward past the waiting wagons until he came to the toll taker. “What is goin' on here, mister!”

The man collecting money glared at Joe and snapped, “Get back in line and wait your turn to pay your fare so you can pass through Devil's Gate.”

If there was one thing that riled Joe Moss, it was taking orders. “The hell I'll pay you!”

The man was big and rough-looking. He glanced at Joe, then pointed up to both sides of the pass where he had riflemen posted. “Oh, you'll pay,” he said, “ 'cause if you try to go through here without payin', then my boys will shoot you dead.”

Joe studied the two riflemen up above. They had Winchester rifles and they looked like they knew how to use them. However, he had never paid a toll to anyone other than a ferryman who had to work hard to get him and his horse across a wide, swift river. This, however, was entirely different, and it stuck in his craw like sand.

“How do you get away with this bullshit?” Joe demanded.

“I own this piece of property called Devil's Gate and that gives me the right to charge everyone a toll. Now, if you don't like paying me a dollar each, then you can turn that horse around and ride about five miles back down this canyon and then another ten miles to start up the mountain from the north like the folks do from Lake's Crossing. It's called Six Mile Canyon, and it'll take you an extra day of hard riding.”

Joe had no intention of losing a full day. “I ain't got that much extra time.”

“Then ride that horse back to your place in line and wait your turn to pay. Those three horses you have will cost you three dollars.”

“That's highway robbery!”

The man laughed, but it was not a nice sound. “I told you your choices. Now quit wastin' my time, mister.”

Joe wanted to get off his horse and whip this sonofabitch who owned Devil's Gate and had riflemen posted ready and willing to kill for a lousy few dollars. But he was with Ellen and he wanted to make sure she got settled somewhere safe. Also, he was nearly to Virginia City and his beloved Fiona. Considering all that, he decided that he would swallow the sand sticking in his craw and pay the outrageous toll.

But if he ever caught this man in some saloon or by himself, he was going to kick his ass up between his bat ears and then mark his hide, by gawd!

After paying, he and Ellen continued up the canyon through the bustling little mining community called Gold Hill. They stopped at a little café and had something to eat that wasn't good and was very expensive.

“How much farther is it to Virginia City?” Ellen asked the café owner.

“About a mile and a half to The Divide that separates our two towns.”

“That all?” Joe asked, feeling his heart beat a little faster with anticipation.

“Yep. But it's the steepest mile and a half you've ever seen wagons being hauled up. It's a corkscrew road and there are a lot of runaways between Gold Hill and Virginia City. And mister, if one of those big freight wagons breaks loose at the top of The Divide and comes barrelin' down that curve at you, it's the end.”

Joe nodded with understanding. “We'll be watchin' for that,” he said.

“See that you do. You have three horses?”

“Yep.”>

“It'll cost you a fortune to board 'em up in Virginia City. You could keep them in my corral for only a dollar a day.”

“For all three?”

“Hell, no! A dollar
each
per day.”

Joe almost fell over. “Mister,” he said, “you've already scalped us for this sorry meal. Now you want to do the same to our horses? No, thanks.”

The café owner laughed. “You'll see when you get up there what I'm talking about. Mostly, they're finding silver, and it assays at an honest $3,000 per ton! That's the richest ore that has ever been discovered in the West, so unless you've got a big fat wad of money, you and your horses will end up eating dirt by next week.”

Joe started to grab the man and shake some manners into him, but Ellen stepped in between saying, “Now, Joe, let's just get on up to Virginia City without any more trouble today. After all, Fiona and your child are up there and you've already waited too long to find them.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, “I guess you're right.”

So he helped her out the door and then onto her horse. The sun struck her hair and it shone real pretty in the high desert sunlight. Ellen Johnson was, Joe thought, really quite a looker. And he was sure that she would soon have a line of admirers standing to win her hand and her heart.

Joe smiled. That was good and it was right. Ellen deserved the very best, but then so did Fiona McCarthy.

W
ELL,” JOE SAID, his eyes drinking in the famed “mining town of Virginia City, “there she be! The Queen of the Comstock Lode, just like that sign says.”

Ellen studied the big sign at the top of the steep grade that told them they had indeed reached Virginia City, whose latest population numbered over two thousand. “See, Joe, aren't you glad that you can read?”

“I sure am,” he said. “Look at the size of this place and all the building that's going on here! Why, I never seen anything like it before. Everything is built on the side of this steep old mountain.”

Virginia City was teeming with business and activity. The main street leading into town was clogged with people, horses, and wagons. Everywhere you looked there were houses, shacks, and businesses being erected, and Joe could see at least half a dozen huge mines belching smoke into the clear blue sky. What was missing was the color green. There wasn't a pine or shade tree in sight nor a blade of green grass. Instead, the Comstock Lode was all rock and sage and soft brown dirt. Once there had been some scrubby piñon and juniper pines on the slopes of Mount Davidson, but they had long since been chopped down for firewood or timbering.

“What do you think, Ellen?”

“It's even worse than I'd imagined,” she said. “I'm not sure that a Mormon farm girl like me can stand it up here for long. I don't even see so much as a flower or a tomato plant growing in anyone's yard.”

“You don't have to stay,” Joe told her with genuine concern. “We can sell your horses and put you on a stagecoach.”

“But where would I go?” she asked. “I could never return to Genoa, and I certainly don't want to return to Carson City.”

“You must have kinfolks someplace that would be happy to see you.”

“I don't,” she admitted. “They're back in Indiana and they are also of the Mormon faith. When they learn what I've done . . . .”

Her words trailed off, and Joe understood. “Look,” he said, “I'm sure that there are some nice women up here that will help you feel at home.”

“I wonder,” she said. “But let's go find out about Fiona and your child, Joe. Their absence has been driving you for too long.”

Joe tugged his hat down a little, feeling a sudden nervousness. “What if Fiona is married again?”

“I don't know what to tell you about that.”

“Or maybe she's in love with someone else now.”

“Joe, let's quit this worrying and find out.”

“All right,” he said, squaring his broad shoulders. “Let's do that, only . . . .”

“Only what?”

“Only how can we even start to find them here? There are so many people in Virginia City that it won't be easy.”

But Ellen disagreed. “A young woman like your Fiona will turn heads and be remembered by everyone. And she'll have a child, which I expect will be very unusual in this wild mining town. And then there is her father. What did you say his name was?”

Joe spat into the dirt. “Brendan McCarthy, but he's no damned good.”

“Doesn't matter,” Ellen said. “If we find him, we'll find your Fiona and child. He's Fiona's father and he might be mean and petty, but he'll still know of his daughter.”

“Yeah, I expect that's true enough. I was just hopin' never to have to lay my eyes on him again.”

“Put the past behind you, Joe. That's what I've been telling myself ever since we left Carson City. We've both crossed the bridge where there is no turning back, so let's go find her and your child.”

Joe set his Palouse horse into motion and rode up C Street into the heart of Virginia City. The downtown seemed like it was just one big saloon after another, and all of them were packed with miners, freighters, gamblers, and shills. Piano music poured into the street, and most of the people Joe saw appeared dead drunk.

“There's a newspaper office,” Ellen said. “That would be a good place to start asking about Fiona and her father.”

“It would?”

“Sure. Their business is to know other people's business.”

Joe and Ellen tied their horses to a hitching rail in front of the office of the newspaper, the
Territorial Enterprise,
and entered the building, where typesetters were busy in the back of the large room filled with a gigantic printing press, while editors and reporters were buzzing around preparing copy.

“Can I help you?” a tall, good-looking man with angular features asked.

“I'm Joe Moss and this is Mrs. Johnson. We're looking for a woman named Fiona McCarthy.”

The man smiled and raised his hands palms up. “I'm afraid we are not the Lost and Found. Maybe you should go to the sheriff's office.”

“Sir,” Ellen said, stepping forward, “it is a pleasure to meet you and I can see that you are very busy getting to press right now, so we won't waste your time. But Mr. Moss is searching for a young woman and his child . . . a child that he has never seen.”

The newspaperman nodded with fresh interest. “Boy or girl?”

“I don't know yet,” Joe said. “It's . . . it's a
complicated
story.”

“And it sounds like a rather interesting one,” the reporter said. “Perhaps worthy of being in our fine newspaper. Oh, my pen name is Dan DeQuille. And I'm sure you have heard of our famous reporter whose pen name . . . which is known far and wide . . . is none other than Mark Twain.”

“Afraid I haven't heard of either of you,” Joe confessed. “I only just learned to read and I'm not all that good at it yet.”

DeQuille shrugged off his disappointment. “Well, would you like to give me some particulars on this missing person you're after? I won't promise you anything, but we might run your story in tomorrow's edition. And that way, if Fiona is still in Virginia City, she would certainly learn that you have come to claim her. You see, almost everyone in this town that can read does read the
Territorial Enterprise
.”

Joe could see that the tall, handsome newspaperman was proud of both his profession and his paper. And the fella was probably correct. Fiona and her father were both readers, and would find out tomorrow that he was in town looking for them.

“Would it cost me to have you run the story?”