The Shopkeeper (3 page)
Authors: James D. Best
Tags: #Western stories, #Nevada, #Westerns, #Historical fiction, #Fiction
Now I understood why the Cutlers seemed so concerned that I might have an interest in mining. They were protecting the interests of their boss.
Jeremiah told me that since I didn’t own a stake in a producing mine, Washburn had no professional interest in me. Occasionally, the Cutlers might kill for fun, he said, but most of the time, Washburn pointed them at enough targets to keep them busy. Dave Masters, the man they shot yesterday, had owned a small silver shaft just south of Washburn’s main mining operation.
“What can you tell me about Jeff Sharp?”
“How’d ya hear about Sharp?”
“He sat down with me after the Cutlers left, but they were still inside Mary’s and saw us together.” Despite my distaste, I swallowed the last of my coffee. “The Cutlers probably think I’m in cahoots with him.”
“That’s not good. Washburn and Sharp are rivals.”
“As I understand it, they have some kind of truce. They leave each other alone.”
“When the timin’s right, Washburn’ll rip up that truce and sic the Cutlers on him.”
“Sharp seems a sturdy sort to me. Maybe he can handle them.”
“He’s a hard man, all right, but he’s also generally a good man, and that puts him at a disadvantage.” Jeremiah gave a glance toward the gingersnap jar, but he must have decided to wait. “Unlike Washburn, Sharp came by most of his claims legitimately.”
“What do you mean
most
?”
“All, I guess.” He couldn’t resist any longer, so he pretended nonchalance as he walked over to the counter for another cookie. He kept talking to disguise his intemperance. “Recently, a few miners have sold their claims to Jeff … at rock-bottom prices. Ya might say ol’ Sharp’s benefited from Washburn’s violent negotiatin’ style.”
I leaned back and rested my chair against an iron rail that circled the dead stove. “The sheriff?”
“Before Washburn stole his first mine, he bought himself a mayor and a sheriff.”
“No other law?”
“Out here? Nope. We got a circuit judge that comes by every few months, but his first duty is to pick up his hush money.”
“Why do prospectors keep coming? Surely they don’t think they can beat the Washburn machine.”
Jeremiah looked a bit scared. “I’m telling ya this because you’re smart enough to keep your mouth shut.”
“Everyone must already know.”
“Locals do, but they don’t speak of it. Washburn is
not
a forgiving man.”
“So the ignorant miners keep coming on the news of fresh strikes.” I tapped down my pipe and relit it. “Why doesn’t Richard run an exposé in his newspaper?”
Jeremiah wore a frightened look as his eyes swept the store to make sure it was still empty. When he spoke, it was just above a whisper. “Because he wants to keep living. Washburn orders the Cutlers to kill his enemies.”
Chapter 5
We had been sitting around the potbelly stove for about an hour when Jeremiah jumped at the tinkle of a small bell. A striking young woman stepped sideways past the male arm that held the door open. She dazzled me. She looked no more than sixteen, and her clean features beamed wonderment and joy with an openness that suggested unsoiled innocence. Her delicate complexion was set off by emerald green eyes so exciting and excited that you instantly wanted to know her. The man who followed gave the lie to my first impression. A hoary, potbellied lecher, he entered the store and put a possessive hand on the girl’s shoulder that said,
This is mine.
Jeremiah rushed to the door. “Mr. Bolton, good to see ya in town. I have most of your order.”
“Not all? Damn it man, I ordered that stuff six weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the … ah … some items must come from Europe.”
Bolton’s angry glare said he craved those items more than the others. Before he could object, Jeremiah bounded into the back room, emerging a few minutes later with his head peeking around a stack of paper-wrapped parcels piled high in his outstretched arms. He moved behind the counter, bent his knees to lower his load, and slipped his arms from beneath the packages.
The pretty girl squealed with glee and rushed the hidden bounty. As she ripped open one package after another, Bolton gave Jeremiah a sideways nod of his head. The two men went to the end of the counter and bent their heads together in muted whispers. Whatever they were talking about, Jeremiah looked tense.
When the two men broke apart, Bolton moved down the counter to hover over the girl and make sweet noises while she finished opening her presents. As she further examined her treasures, Bolton fired off a series of new orders at Jeremiah for the latest New York fashions in shoes, scarves, and hats. I noticed the young woman lost her gleeful expression and looked resigned when Bolton turned his back to her. Carefully rewrapping each package, she showed no interest in Bolton’s excessive and prideful display of generosity.
After the couple left with their bounty, Jeremiah collapsed into his chair and wiped his sweaty brow with a bandana. “Gettin’ hot already.”
“Yes, indeed,” I said.
Jeremiah’s look said that he did not like the tone of my voice. I leaned forward, hands clasped, elbows on knees, and pleaded, “Tell me the story.”
Despite the lack of a tinkling bell, Jeremiah whipped his head around to assure himself that we were alone. After a moment, he shrugged and said, “John Bolton’s got a cattle ranch about a hundred miles north of here. A huge one. He used to be state senator but got beat last election. He still has powerful friends, and rumor has it he’s gonna run for governor. Probably why he’s spendin’ so much time in this part of the state.”
“I don’t care about that. What’s with him and the girl?”
“You scalawag.” Jeremiah seemed to relax a little. “That’s his wife. They’ve been married for two years.”
“Two years? She looks like a child.”
“Fifteen when they wed. Her name’s Jenny. She’s the only daughter of a dirt-poor sodbuster. Heard the father was glad to be done with her, but he still bartered a bride-price of forty silver dollars. Quite a sum in these parts.”
“If he lives a hundred miles north, why doesn’t he buy her goodies in Carson City?”
“I presume he does. He probably buys her things in every town he visits, so there’s a bundle waitin’ for her at every stop. He never fails to order new things every time he’s here.”
“Good customer.”
“Not that good. He refused to pay me for the stuff they walked out with until the rest of the order arrives.” I could see Jeremiah calculating in his head. “Damn. That’s nearly twenty dollars he owes me.”
“Let’s see if I can guess what he ordered from Europe … French lingerie?”
“Yep.” Jeremiah got a wicked grin. “And pissed that he had to pay her douceur without getting fresh wrappings for his plaything.”
“I’d take that au naturel.”
Jeremiah looked miffed. “Clean your mind of those sinful images, or the devil’ll take ya to his bosom.”
“You’re right.” I felt a twinge of shame. With no forethought, I had sullied myself by mentally climbing into Bolton’s depraved bed. “She looks like such an ingénue.”
“She speaks like a little girl. Must tightly bottle up what happens at night, because I believe her unworldliness genuine.”
I glanced at the shop door, closed to the outside. “Unfortunately, the world has a way of intruding.”
Chapter 6
“Do ya know how this-here town got its name?”
I jerked in surprise at the question. I had just left Jeremiah’s store, and the voice came from behind me, but I recognized it as belonging to the skinny Cutler. Turning around, I saw the two brothers leaning against the sidewall of a building I had just passed. They looked as if they had been waiting for me.
“No idea,” I answered.
“Several years ago, a miner used a pick handle to club a poor Chinaman to death.”
I tried not to let his smirk bother me. “Interesting,” I said as I turned to go.
“There’s more, greenhorn.”
I stopped. “I thought there might be.”
“Ya see, that Chinaman had tried to smuggle silver nuggets out of the miner’s claim by hidin’ them inside his gums.” His weird smile and outsized facial features reminded me of a
New York Tribune
political cartoon. After he spit a stream of tobacco juice, he added, “That miner first whacked the Chinaman across mouth … then he clubbed him ’til his brains spilled out.”
I just stood there and tried not to appear nervous.
The skinny Cutler, still wearing a smirk, pushed himself away from the wall. “Round hereabouts, we don’t blame a man for protectin’ his claim. Instead, we name the town after his deed.”
“I see.”
“Do ya?” He took a step toward me. “If ya ain’t got yer eye on some silver claim, why’d ya talk to ol’ Sharp?”
“When he asked to sit, I didn’t know he was a miner. We didn’t talk about mining.”
“What did ya talk about?”
I couldn’t think of a better answer, so I told the truth. “You boys … and New York City.”
The brothers’ baleful laughs increased my unease. “What ol’ Sharp tell ya about us boys?”
“He said not to rile you.”
“Goddamn.” The brothers slapped each other on the shoulder. “That’s good advice. Ol’ Sharp ought to follow it hisself.”
I wanted to know how Sharp had offended the brothers, but I kept that question to myself. “Good talking to you gents. It’s a small town, so I’m sure we’ll run into—”
“How come ya still ain’t wearin’ a gun?” the second Cutler demanded.
“No need. I’m not going to interfere with your business, and I’ll do my best not to rile you.”
“Ya
already
riled us.” The second Cutler took an advancing step toward me. “We told ya, in Nevada a man needs a gun.”
“I don’t see miners wearing one.”
“Ya would if ya visited a saloon after dark, ’stead of playin’ Old Maid with them milksops.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make the situation worse. Sharp was right—they were just going to keep coming after me. Without another word, I turned to go. Maybe I should get out of town. It looked like my best choice. Tomorrow I could start riding toward Carson City, my next planned stop and, I hoped, a civilized city.
“Don’t rely on ol’ Sharp to protect ya. He has his own worries.”
I kept walking.
Then I heard the second Cutler yell, “Git a gun, greenhorn. If ya don’t, we’ll find ourselves a pick handle.”
Pickhandle Gulch was indeed a small town. Before I reached my hotel, I spotted the young woman from Jeremiah’s sitting on a bench in front of the bank. I tipped my hat and said, “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
She barely nodded in return.
“I saw you earlier in the general store,” I offered.
She looked up with disinterest. “I remember.”
“May I sit a moment?” Why did I want to talk to a married woman?
“My husband’s inside the bank.”
“That’s who I want to talk about, if I may.” I brazenly sat beside her on the bench. “Is it true he’s running for governor?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Do you know his political platform? I may want to make a contribution.”
“I haven’t the least idea. Ask him yourself. He’s inside the bank.”
“Well … do you know if he supports stronger law enforcement in this part of the state?”
She turned slightly toward me with a bored expression. “I said he’s inside the bank. If you want to talk politics, you’ll have no trouble getting his attention.”
This line of conversation was going nowhere. I should have left, but despite her indifferent manner, I still found her engaging. I tried another tack. “I’ve just recently arrived from New York City. Would you like to hear about the latest fashions?”
“Again, you need to talk to my husband. He’s the one interested in fashion.” She returned her gaze to some point in the middle of the street.
I didn’t want to appear a complete fool, so I stood and tipped my hat again. “Excuse me for bothering you, ma’am. Perhaps I can catch your husband at a more opportune time.”
As I marched away, my senses registered only the echo of my boots against the boardwalk. Thankfully, each footfall took me another step away from my embarrassment. Why had I tried to talk to her? I had never approached another man’s wife before. And to what purpose? I suddenly realized my clumsy behavior with Mrs. Bolton bothered me a hell of a lot more than my little skirmish with the Cutler brothers.
Then I thought about her behavior. When presented with an armful of gifts, she squealed like a child on Christmas morning, but when Bolton wasn’t paying attention to her, she seemed withdrawn and blasé. Which was the act? Why did I care? Damn. This town was full of trouble. If I had had any reservations about leaving in the morning, they had been squashed. It seemed embarrassment drove me to action faster than fear.
Chapter 7