The Shopkeeper (2 page)

I didn’t know how to respond, so I worked to keep my face neutral. I knew that in the West, men wore guns like New Yorkers wore suspenders, but I didn’t covet that kind of adventure. Last year, I had decided to sell all my possessions and head for the frontier. For nine months, I had been casually moving in a westerly direction and had been in some rough towns. Never before had I felt a need to carry a sidearm, and I had no inclination to start now. Civilization had come to the West by the late nineteenth century, and despite the dime novels, I found things pretty tame. Until today.

“’Cuz we
been outside, greenhorn. There ain’t no sights.”

“You’re yella.” This came from the taller Cutler, who up to now had let his brother do the talking.

This took me by surprise, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “No I’m not!”

The taller one grinned. “Then git a gun.” He laughed in a way that made me uncomfortable. “Cuz maybe next time, I’ll show ya the sights of mine.”

His crude pun actually surprised me. He didn’t look intelligent enough to compose a complete sentence. These were dangerous men, and I wanted them to go away. Now.

I tried what I hoped was a disarming smile. “I’ll just keep to myself, if you don’t mind. No need for gunplay. Noise frightens me.”

“Damn, you’re yella,” the smaller one cackled. With that, he reached over and stuck his finger in my eggs and held my eyes with a challenging leer. When I returned my best attempt at a blank look, he swirled his finger, messed my eggs, and then held a yolk-stained finger in front of my face. “Yep, yella.” Heaping on even more provocation, he slowly wiped his finger on my sleeve. “Yer eggs are cold, greenhorn.”

I tried another smile and said, “Thank you, I hate cold eggs.”

The two men laughed uproariously. As I wondered what additional indignity they could invent, they simply turned and walked to a table in the back. I exhaled in relief, but the echo of the raspy Cutler laugh hurt in an unfamiliar place.

Mary rushed over, clucking like a mother hen, “Oh, Mr. Dancy, let me get you fresh eggs.”

Shaking a bit from anger, or perhaps humiliation, I said, “Yes, please, thank you.” She started to say something, thought better of it, and whirled before I sputtered out, “Mary, tell those men in back that their breakfast is on me.”

“Mr. Dancy, are you—”

“Yes, quite sure.”

I didn’t like the sad look she gave me as she returned to the kitchen. At least with her departure, wreathed in pity or not, I could get back to the comfort of my morning ritual.

Chapter 3

“That’s a mistake.”

I thought the Cutlers had finally left me alone. Annoyed, I looked up from my breakfast and book to see a middle-aged, sturdily built man whose face showed the same tatty and frayed history as his workaday garb.

I must have looked puzzled, because he added, “Ya can’t buy peace with them Cutlers. They’ll just come back until they squeeze the last little spark of manhood outta ya.”

Mary winked and scurried off to get the coffee. After watching her retreating backside a while, Sharp returned his attention to me. “The way I see it, ya got two choices. The first is to get a gun, so the odds are a little more even.”

“Why not have the Cutlers remove their guns? That’d make things more even.”

“Don’t suggest that. One of the brothers’ll unhook
an’ invite ya into the street. You’ll think you’re about to engage in a little fisticuffs, but before ya can say ‘Put ’em up,’ you’ll find a knife in your belly. Seen it before. They’ll just gut ya from side to side an’ laugh all the while ya bleed to death.”

Sharp leaned back and stared at me, so I asked, “What’s my second choice?”

“Get out of town.”

To buy time, I took a bite of my bacon. After chewing a bit, I said, “I’ve never shot at a man, and I’m not going to challenge those boys to a duel.”

“Then leave. Right now. Don’t finish your meal. Just git up, throw your stuff together, an’ ride out before they finish that meal ya so foolishly bought ’em.”

“Nobody.” Sharp leaned over close. “Them Cutlers ain’t right in the head.” Sharp nodded toward their table. “Inbreedin’, I’m a-thinkin’.”

“They leave you alone?”

“For now. The Cutlers work for Sean Washburn. He owns the biggest private minin’ operation in the state. I own the second biggest.” Sharp gave another glance to the back of the room. “Sean lets the Cutlers have their fun, but they won’t go against his orders, an’ we’ve had an uneasy truce for years.” Sharp shrugged, “Besides, I got ruffians of my own to protect my claims.”

The news that Sharp owned mining claims disturbed me. Here I sat, talking to a mine owner, when I had just told the Cutlers I had no interest in mining. Damn. I wanted to look over to see whether they were watching, but I knew that would be a mistake. Should I be rude and noisily send Sharp away? I decided that if the Cutlers had made up their minds, nothing would change them. Besides, I might learn something from Sharp that could help me out of this mess.

I pushed my plate away. “Listen, I may not be from the West, but I understand that kind of men. I won’t let them bait me into something foolish.”

After he finished warning me to fight or flee, I had a good talk with Jeff Sharp. I liked the man. While he lacked formal education, he had a different kind of knowledge and the wisdom that comes from having experienced the world. Sharp had been to Europe and South America, worked in mines, driven a stagecoach, bossed a cattle drive, and acted as an agent for a New York importer. He had the savvy of a trader and displayed the confidence of someone who had bossed tough men in the middle of nowhere.

We talked about the pieces of New York that we shared; there were many. The craggy man seemed to crave new experiences and had visited every nook and cranny of the large metropolis. Sharp asked where my shop was located, and he seemed satisfied when I simply said that it was on the outskirts of the city.

At the end of our leisurely conversation, Sharp looked at me, hesitated, and then said, “There
is
a third way. I could tell Washburn I hired ya. The Cutlers leave my men alone.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I might consider your offer if things get worse, but for now, I’d just as soon let things settle down on their own.”

After I paid the check for both of us, I stood to leave, and Sharp rose with me. Then he did something disconcerting. He extended his hand and said, “Pleasure talking with ya.”

I had no choice, so I shook Sharp’s hand and stole a glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, the Cutlers were both eying me. Richard had said the brothers came into Pickhandle Gulch every couple of weeks, so maybe I just needed to stay out of sight until they left town.

After I left Mary’s, I locked myself in my room to spend a few hours with Melville.

Chapter 4

After reading for a couple of hours, I got tired of being closed in and decided to wander over to Jeremiah’s general store for tobacco and some civil conversation.

Pickhandle Gulch nestled between the Silver Peak Range and the Excelsior Mountains. The main road curved up a mild grade toward a stamp mill, an ugly building that pulverized rock and made a nerve-racking noise all day long. About two dozen thrown-together buildings lined either side of a road, and hundreds of hovels scarred the surrounding slopes. Miners built these shelters with rocks because the beige hills that rolled off in every direction were completely barren of trees. For that matter, hardly any foliage reached above a man’s boots, and even the valley spread out below presented only a relentless brown landscape spotted with a few rocks and some pale sagebrush. Lumber was the second-dearest commodity in town. Water was the first.

The town did not sit pretty, but the splendor of the countryside grew on you. Its beauty came from its expansiveness. A vast sky canopied sight lines that went on forever, and the russet hills seemed to writhe with the changing light. I liked Nevada, but I sure missed the color green.

Most people lived in outlying areas and came into town to get provisions, visit the saloons, eat a decent meal, and mostly, I supposed, enjoy the hospitality at Ruby’s. Wherever they came from and for whatever purpose, few left without spending a goodly sum at Jeremiah’s general store.

Jeremiah had migrated from somewhere in Colorado and built a two-story clapboard building to ply his lucrative trade. Behind the building, Jeremiah had buried an ice cellar; every week, he had ice hauled to town from high in the mountains. He made a good profit selling the ice to the town’s four saloons, and I blessed him daily for the chilled beer. He lived above his store and, from what I could gather, had few interests besides selling his wares and playing whist. I guessed that Jeremiah was in his thirties, but his prematurely bald pate, pudgy face, and formidable paunch added at least five years to his appearance.

When I entered, Jeremiah gave me a friendly nod and finished with another customer before going into the back room. In a few minutes, he returned with two cups of lukewarm coffee. Handing me one of the cups, he leaned over the counter, pulled out a packet of my favorite pipe tobacco, and tossed it to me. I nodded thanks as he unconsciously reached into a huge cookie jar for a gingersnap. Jeremiah constantly munched gingersnaps as he drank endless cups of truly awful coffee.

I took a sip of the coffee and felt myself grimace. “Jeremiah, you sell decent coffee beans. Why do you drink this swill?”

“I’m runnin’ a store here. I don’t have time to roast, grind, and boil new coffee all day long. Besides, the higher grades are overrated and overpriced. This tastes just fine.”

I waved my coffee cup in the direction of his stock. “Admit it: you’re just too cheap to drink your good inventory.”

“If it’s not to your likin’, Mary will sell ya a cup for a nickel.”

Something in my face must have revealed my unease at hearing this comment, because Jeremiah looked quizzical and then asked, “What’s wrong?”

We settled into a couple of rockers around an unlit potbelly stove, and I stuffed and tapped my pipe until it satisfied me and then took my time lighting it. After a few slow draws, I described my nasty encounter with the Cutlers.

When I finished, Jeremiah gave me a look that reminded me of the pitiful glance Mary had thrown my way earlier. I didn’t understand. I knew they considered me a greenhorn, but I had banged around the West for nearly a year and had taken care of myself just fine. Why did everyone worry about a few rowdies with less self-control than a pair of spoiled ten-year-olds?

Sooner or later, everyone had to visit the general store to buy provisions. Most people lingered to trade news and gossip. Women liked to chat as they fingered the dry goods along the back counter, while the men usually shared a smoke around the cast-iron stove that dominated the middle of the store. Jeremiah’s sympathetic face invited confidences, so he knew most of the town’s secrets and tawdry tales. I needed to figure out how much trouble I was really in, so I started asking my whist partner questions.

Jeremiah told me that dealing with the Cutlers would be dodgy, but the real threat was their boss, Sean Washburn—a pure and simple thug, untainted by even a smidgen of conscience. Washburn’s boundless greed and ruthless cunning had built a huge mining operation that extended all over the state, including Virginia City. It was beneath him to actually prospect. He let others sweat it out in the canyon furnaces until they found veins of silver. Then, like a feudal lord, he would jump their claim and append it to his already thriving enterprises. He gave small holders a simple choice: abandon their diggings for a pittance or be buried under their claim. The Cutlers served Washburn as a handy tool to scare the hardscrabble miners—or eliminate them if they refused to scurry away in panic.