The Shopkeeper (10 page)

“They do what I tell ’em.”

I did not like someone else possibly taking a bullet for me, but I saw it made sense, at least from Captain McAllen’s perspective. Sprague probably had only a rough description of me, and from a distance, he would aim at the rider not dressed in Pinkerton black. I wondered what kind of man would willingly disguise himself as the target of a committed killer. Someone braver than me.

“What about Jeff?” I asked.

“Jeff’s bigger and older and known throughout the state. Sprague won’t make that mistake. And he may not mistake my man for you. There
is
a risk. To make this masquerade look real, you’ll have to ride on the outside of my man.”

Captain McAllen had made his point. I could decide what we did, but he would dictate how it would be done—or he would ride off, taking with him the only protection I could count on within hundreds of miles. I knew I would acquiesce. I had, after all, hired professionals for a reason.

Chapter 18

I had one piece of business to settle before I could leave Pickhandle Gulch. No one had responded to my “Bank Teller Needed” sign, and I needed someone to take care of the bank while I was gone.

During my discussion with Sharp and McAllen, Jeremiah had studiously ignored us and kept himself busy adjusting bolts of cloth that were already perfectly arranged. After Sharp left, I told McAllen I had personal business with the store proprietor and that he should go over to the hotel and take care of his men. He swung his rifle up across his chest and said he and his man would wait for me outside.

When I looked around, I saw Jeremiah on a small ladder, facing his merchandise shelves. I walked noisily over to a point where I was sure he could see me from the corner of his eye, but he continued to pretend to be absorbed in his task.

Jeremiah threw me a wary look and began to climb down. His weight made him clumsy, so even though he had only three rungs to descend, he held onto a shelf to steady his cautious steps. Without hesitation or comment, he disappeared into the back room, reappearing a few moments later with two heavy porcelain coffee cups. We both took our customary chairs around the potbelly stove, and I accepted the proffered cup. The tepid coffee tasted horrible, but I was so grateful for the gesture, I didn’t make any of my customary smart-aleck remarks.

Jeremiah looked anxious, so I decided to jump right in and make this as short as possible. “I’m leaving for Carson City in the morning. The trip has to do with bringing this business to a close.” Jeremiah gave me a blank expression, so again I went right to the point. “I need someone to watch the bank for me.”

“What? You’re askin’ me? I have a store to run.”

“You have Jemmy and that man who comes in on weekends. If you could keep the bank open for an hour or so in the morning and two hours in the late afternoon when the miners get off, that should do it. Maybe put a sign out that says you’ll make transactions for fewer than twenty dollars here at the store.”

“How do ya know you’ll be gone for only two weeks?” Jeremiah went to the counter for one of his gingersnaps; then grabbed three. He snapped off half a cookie into his mouth and followed it with a big swig of lukewarm coffee. “How do ya know ya won’t be gone permanent?”

I ignored the way he’d said
permanent
, as if I might be dead. “I’ll find someone to run the bank in Carson City, and I’ll dispatch him immediately. Should be here in well under two weeks. In the meantime, I need your help.”

Jeremiah looked pained. “I can’t.”

I forced myself to sip his lousy coffee. “Are you afraid of Washburn?”

“Of course. The two of ya are in a feud. I want no part of it.” He gobbled the remainder of his gingersnap and continued to talk with a full mouth. “If Washburn has ya killed, I might get stuck taking care of your damn bank. And for what?”

“I’ll make sure you don’t get stuck. In case Sprague gets lucky, I’ll put in writing that you get full ownership of the bank on my death.” I could see that the offer softened his resistance, so I added, “Do you really think Washburn will allow you to continue raking off so much of the mines’ profits with this store? That man wants it all, including what’s yours.”

When Jeremiah just sat there looking worried, I added, “You already pay the sheriff. Soon you’ll no longer be a shop owner, just a clerk in someone else’s store.”

“I know your middling bank deposits don’t reflect your sales, and you bar and lock that icehouse like it was filled with gold instead of frozen water. It didn’t take much to figure out where you hide your money.”

“Damn.” Jeremiah stood and started pacing. “Damn, damn, damn.”

Because of the merchandise stacked everywhere, Jeremiah could only go about two and a half paces in one direction, and then he had to reverse. He reminded me of one of those Swiss clocks with the little wooden characters that every hour just go back and forth lickety-split.

After about three of these aborted laps, Jeremiah muttered, “What am I gonna do?”

“Jeremiah, I won’t steal your money. In fact, if you deposit it with the bank, I’ll help you protect it. Pay you interest too.”

“Ya don’t understand.” He gave me a forlorn look. “Washburn already owns half this store. Six months ago, he insisted I sell him half for a piddling price, or there would be a fire and I’d lose it all. The Cutlers presented the offer and flipped a lit cigarette into my dry goods to make sure I got the point. What ya warned me might happen in the future has already happened.”

I spoke very quietly. “Jeremiah, we’ve both committed supposed capital offenses against Washburn. He knows mine. He’ll find out about yours.” I let him ponder that a moment. “Rejoin our whist group. Working together we can thwart Washburn and save ourselves. Separate, we’ll each die, either a little bit each day, or all at once.”

“Washburn may not find out.
You
only figured it because ya know my bank deposits.”

I just let him think that one through. He dropped his head into both hands. When he looked up, he said, “Ya think Crown already told him.”

“Of course. Washburn knows, and as soon as he takes care of other business, he’ll come see you for his rightful cut … and his pound of flesh.”

“I’m doomed.” He dropped his head back into his hands and started weeping. I waited. Finally, he looked up with bloodshot eyes. “Tell me what ya want.”

“Get Jemmy to watch the store, and we’ll go across the street. You’ve got a good head for figures, so it won’t take long to teach you the books.”

“Give him whatever bribe you normally pay.” I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket. “If he wants four thousand dollars, give it to him—after he signs this document.”

Chapter 19

Jeff Sharp lived in Belleville, a mining encampment less than twenty miles from Pickhandle Gulch. When we approached, his place surprised me. I should have known better. The man was rich, but his unassuming ways and scruffy dress had led me to expect modest quarters. Instead, as we rounded a craggy ridge, I spotted a great Georgian house built atop a stepstool-like rise at the base of some imposing hills. An expansive porch supported by white columns framed the red-brick structure. The clean lines and symmetry looked out of place in contrast with the surrounding haphazard, raw-lumber outbuildings.

As we rode closer, I became impressed with the size of the operation. The menagerie of outbuildings included a stamp mill, bunkhouses, stables, various smith shops, tool sheds, and what appeared to be a huge cookhouse. I realized that Sharp must keep most of his money in Carson City, because his deposits and loans at my bank did not reflect this size of enterprise. It suddenly struck me that Washburn must do the same. He might have tapped my little bank for money, but he would do his big dealings with big banks.

As we drew closer, I noticed something else: armed guards scattered behind strategic outcroppings. The natural terrain sheltered the cluster of buildings almost as well as a man-made fortress. They evidently expected us, because each layer of guards waved us past. Now we rode as a group, but until a few miles back, two of the Pinkertons had ridden ahead and to the side of our party to investigate likely ambush sites.

My Pinkerton clothes fit reasonably well, but I found the smell of stale sweat off-putting. More bothersome, Captain McAllen had insisted that we exchange horses. I had ridden Chestnut from Denver, and I missed my horse more than my clothes. At least the captain had allowed me my own saddle, which he said looked nondescript from a distance.

An unkempt, bearded man carrying a shotgun met us on the porch of the main house. “Mr. Sharp said you should wait in the parlor. He’ll be with you in short order.”

Captain McAllen gave his men a perfunctory signal, and they rode over to the bunkhouse. Evidently, they would not have guest privileges in the main house.

At the porch steps, someone had pounded into the dirt a neatly lettered wooden placard that read, “Remove Spurs & Clean Boots.” Without discussion, we dismounted, removed our spurs, hung them on the saddle horns, and made a show of scraping our already-clean boots. A hired hand immediately gathered up our reins and led the horses toward the stables.

After I had trudged up the three steps to the porch, I turned to check our approach from the perspective of the house. A picturesque valley fell away from the compound to present a spectacular view. The second thing that struck me was that no one could approach unseen.

Then I noticed an odd smell: the nasal-burning odor of a smelting furnace mixed with the appealing aroma of roasting beef. I walked to the end of the porch and spotted a cow rotating on a spit outside the cookhouse. Sharp’s men ate well.

Inside the house, I discovered another surprise. The furnishings were big and comfortable, sized to fit a man. Despite the masculine feeling, the house showed subtle signs of refined taste. Heavy but well-proportioned ranch-style couches and chairs were accented with rich rugs, expensive lighting fixtures, and scattered wooden ceremonial masks that I presumed came from South America. Sharp had used his travel souvenirs to good effect.

Somehow the exterior and interior of the house worked together, and I was sure that a lesser mortal like myself would have made a hash of the whole thing. Despite our numerous conversations, I realized that I still did not know Jeff Sharp very well.

McAllen and I stood in the center of the parlor trying to figure out what to do, when a servant entered and offered us liquor, beer, or coffee. Since the day had already grown hot, and we were thirsty from our ride, we both requested beer, despite the early hour. The servant indicated we should sit and, with deliberate care, placed a coaster in front of each of us. Looking around, I decided the arrangement of couches and chairs created a comfortable seating area that would make any hotel owner proud.