The Shopkeeper Read online

  “Break two of his fingers,” I said to McAllen, nonchalantly.

  McAllen immediately grabbed the little man’s hand.

  “What?” Wilson looked up into McAllen’s narrowed eyes. “No, stop!”

  McAllen squeezed for a long moment and then let go of Wilson’s scrawny hand. He then made a show of slowly withdrawing his own hand to let it rest against the butt of his gun.

  Wilson’s nervous eyes flitted around the room looking for help. “What if, for sake of argument only, I said that Washburn and I had some mutual business dealings? Why would I discontinue involvement with profitable enterprises?”

  “I’ll pay more—and you’ll end up dead if you don’t.”

  Wilson looked dubious for the first time. “You wouldn’t murder me.”

  “But you believe Washburn would?”

  This made him visibly more nervous. He scanned the room again before he whispered, “Yes.”

  “The difference between Washburn and me is that Washburn would pay to have you shot in the street. I’d do something quieter, easier to turn a blind eye to, like slip poison into your food.” I shrugged. “You die either way.”

  Wilson shook his head. “No. I saw Washburn at your table. He meant business.”

  “That was just Washburn throwing a bluff.” I made a dismissive gesture. “But you’re right, this little war is going to get bloodier than hell—and you’re on the wrong side. I’m giving you one chance to switch … or you become my first target. And I don’t let unfinished work hang around long.” I gave him a few seconds. “What’ll it be?”

  Wilson whispered again. “I’ll come to your side, if I can keep it secret. I’ll delay the cases Washburn wants and tell you what’s going on in his camp.”

  I leaned into Wilson’s face. “Judge, you can’t stay neutral or play both sides. I’ve got writs I want approved … tonight.”

  Wilson sat back, a picture of cowardly alarm. “I can’t. I won’t.” He looked between McAllen and me. “Can’t we work something out? I’ll do anything else.”

  I pretended to think through the alternatives. “Disappear. Tonight.”

  “Can I come back after the election?”

  “No.” I turned to McAllen. “If you see this man again, shoot him.”

  “With pleasure,” McAllen said with a wicked grin.

  “Where can I go? How can I make a living?”

  I pretended to think. “Tell you what. You give me a letter of resignation, and I’ll get you a letter of recommendation from the current governor. That should help you get a judgeship in another state. Telegraph me after you get to where you’re going.”

  Wilson backed up his chair as if to leave.

  “Stay put,” I said. “I want that letter now.” I motioned toward McAllen, who immediately went to the hotel lobby for writing materials.

  With McAllen gone for the moment, Wilson started to get up, but I reached into my coat, and he sat back down. McAllen returned, set the inkwell down with a resounding snap, and tossed paper and pen in front of Wilson.

  I merely said, “Write.”

  After a few minutes, the honorable judge Wilson handed me his resignation. I read it and then flipped my fingers in dismissal. Wilson bolted for the door without a word.

  After he had left, I grinned at McAllen and said, “That was easy.”

  “He didn’t wait for his lady friend,” McAllen said with a chuckle.

  I made a show of looking around and then gave McAllen a broad smile. “I don’t think she’s coming back.”

  “You’d make a good thespian.”

  “Too respectable. I prefer banking.”

  We walked back over to Bradshaw, and I threw the letter in front of him. “I regret to inform you that the Nevada circuit judge has found it necessary to resign. Do you think the governor can appoint a replacement?”

  Bradshaw quickly read the letter. “I’ll see him in the morning.”

  “Can you make it someone honest or at least corruptible to our side?”

  “I prefer the latter.” Bradshaw smiled, but I believed he was serious.

  Sharp looked amused. “Shall we call it an evening or meander down to the saloon to demonstrate our fondness for violence?”

  “After that bedroll last night, I can’t wait to climb into a featherbed. But, Jeff, feel free to go kill someone if you like.”

  Bradshaw bristled. “Don’t make light of this, boys. I meant what I said.”

  I got up to leave. “Don’t worry. When it comes to it, we’ll not hesitate.”

  Captain McAllen escorted me to my room. As we walked up the stairs, he said, “You forgot to mention that letter of recommendation to Bradshaw.”

  I kept climbing. “Why would I do that?”

  Chapter 31

  The next morning, I asked Captain McAllen to eat breakfast at another table. I had come to accept most of the new disruptions in my life, but I wanted a few private minutes with Mark Twain before the day began. I was reading Jeremiah’s copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, but I made a mental note to buy my own in Carson City. Twain had worked here as a reporter for a spell, so I felt confident I could find his book at one of the general stores.

  Tom Sawyer was written in a fresh, natural style that somehow seemed uniquely American. I hoped it did not catch on, because my writing was much more literary, or at least what I believed New Yorkers thought of as literary. Tom Sawyer threw eastern conventions to the wind. The story engaged the reader with quick-paced action, spiced it with humor, and read so easy it seemed the writer had just taken down verbatim the narrative of a skillful storyteller.

  The more I read, the more I became engrossed in the story and forgot about analyzing the style. I would read it again, but next time it would be my own copy, so I could make notations in the margins. This time, I would just let the story carry me along.

  A glance at my pocket watch surprised me—I had spent nearly two hours at the breakfast table. Reluctantly, I put the book down and then noticed McAllen staring intently at something or someone over my shoulder. When I turned to see what held his attention, I saw the two guards that had accompanied Washburn the prior evening. This was not good. Even with Captain McAllen and his men protecting me, I could not lose myself in a book. I needed to kill that habit, or I might get myself killed.

  I stood, stretched, and then sauntered over toward Washburn’s henchmen. McAllen leaped to his feet and moved quickly to catch up with me. The eyes of everyone in the restaurant followed my short walk, and I suddenly sensed a tension in the room that had probably been there the whole time I had been absorbed in Tom Sawyer.

  As I approached, I noticed that their empty breakfast plates had been pushed away, and one of the men had turned his chair so that it faced the room instead of the table. “Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed your breakfast?”

  They sat silent, and the one facing the room tried a stern look meant to scare me into retreat. His three day’s worth of black whiskers actually made him look scruffy, not mean. The other one finally spoke in a mocking manner. “Must be a good book.”

  “An excellent book. Tom Sawyer. When you learn to read, you should pick it up.”

  “You shit-eater; we can read.”

  “I wouldn’t know it from the dumb expressions you’ve been wearing for the last hour.”

  The talker glanced at McAllen and then returned his attention to me. “Who you tryin’ to buffalo? You never noticed us.”

  “I did. And I came over here to tell you never to sit at my back again … or you won’t finish another meal.”

  “Fuck—”

  I saw a flash of movement to my right and reached for my gun in a spasm of panic. With my gun leveled at the whiskered man, I risked a glance at his partner. McAllen’s long-barreled Smith & Wesson pointed at a bloody mouth spitting teeth. Ramming my gun under the other one’s chin, I reached down with my left hand and took his pistol. McAllen did not disarm his man.

  McAllen smiled and said, “Now you
can eat shit with that mouth. No chewing required.”

  The man tried to answer, but his mouth spewed only red spit and some odd noises.

  “Don’t try to speak,” McAllen said. “Too late to apologize, and a threat will just get you dead. I only bash a man once. The next time I kill him.” The only response was a pathetic gurgling. McAllen shifted his attention to the one under my gun. “You or your partner even look to cross our path, and I’ll kill you both.” When the man’s face showed fear, McAllen added, “Now, help get your friend over to a dentist.”

  I holstered my own gun and spilled out the cartridges from the one I had taken. As the black-haired bodyguard helped the injured man to his feet, I dropped the empty pistol back into his holster. I saw his eyes measure the distance to the gun in his partner’s holster, but the sound of McAllen cocking his weapon made it a fleeting thought. The two men stumbled out, and the room suddenly became noisy with animated conversation.

  I walked back to my table, intending to pick up my book, when McAllen said, “Sit. Let’s have a cup of coffee and talk a minute.”

  I did not need any more coffee, but I sat down anyway. After McAllen took a seat on the opposite side of the table, he said, “You were lost in that book.”

  “You’re right.”

  McAllen nodded. “Good. Don’t lie to me.” He seemed to relax a bit and grinned. “But it was a fine lie to tell them fellas. From now on, order breakfast in your room.”

  “Of course,” I said, realizing that my days in Pickhandle Gulch had caused me to forget the refinements of a decent hotel.

  “All right.” McAllen sounded friendlier than usual. “We sure didn’t need to wait long for an opportunity to show our violent side.” He looked around the room at all the whispering guests. “Bradshaw got what he wanted. Word will get all over town in less than an hour.”

  “That wasn’t my intent.”

  “I know. Listen, you handled yourself real well there, but—if you don’t mind—I’d like to give you some advice.”

  “Sure.”

  “Your man was still armed. He had a hide-out gun and a knife.”

  “You left your man with a gun.”

  “And I watched him close. A person might not pay enough attention to a man he thinks is disarmed.”

  “Meaning, get all their weapons or let it be?”

  “And no more books in public. Stay alert.”

  “Anything else?”

  “If you see either of those men again, they’ll mean to kill you. Shoot first.”

  I nodded. I had been proud of the way I approached the two men, but I had intended only to challenge them verbally. McAllen went to direct physical violence. Last night, Bradshaw had recommended this kind of action, and McAllen had lost no time finding an opportunity to publicly show we could match Washburn’s ferocity. I was also proud that I had pinned my man—only to find out he hid additional weapons. I had been lulled by old habits, habits that were harmless in my previous life but now might prove fatal. I vowed to do better.

  “What’re your plans for today?” McAllen asked.

  “I’m going to try to find Bolton’s lawyer. Put one of your men with me, so you and Sharp can talk to that tobacconist.”

  “Sam’ll go with you. We’ll also ask if anyone saw Washburn and Sprague together.”

  “Your other two men?”

  “Being sworn in as state officers at the capitol. Then they meet with Bradshaw to find out who they’re to question.”

  “Let’s meet for beer about two this afternoon. Figure out our next moves.”

  McAllen immediately said, “Here at the hotel. Stay away from the saloons.”

  Chapter 32

  I asked the hotel clerk for the best lawyer in town. He directed me to a man named Jansen, who had an office across from the capitol. I then asked to see the chambermaid in my room, so I could give her some special instruction. After a brief wait, an exceptionally skinny girl arrived, whose cheap dress fell straight down from her narrow shoulders.

  “You sent for me?” she said.

  “I would like you to do me a favor. I’ll pay handsomely.”

  “All right.”

  “I haven’t told you what I want yet.”

  “Tell me … and then I’ll tell you what handsomely means.”

  That took me aback, but I plunged ahead. “I want you to write a letter and sign it with another woman’s name. Can you write?”

  “You mean can I forge?”

  I had to laugh. She may have been slight, but her wit had heft. “Yes, can you forge a letter?”

  “I think the question is, will I forge a letter for you?”

  “You’re educated!”

  “I teach politicians’ children when I’m not cleaning chamber pots.”

  That surprised me. I was looking for a poor girl with rudimentary writing skills. It seemed that I had found a tutor. “Can’t you get a secretarial position with one of the politicians in this town?”

  “I’d rather work with their children.”

  Her bitter tone told me not to pursue that path, so I simply said, “All right, now tell me, what does handsomely mean?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  I whistled. “A lot of money.” My instinct to barter showed I had not shaken off all my old habits. “Ten.”

  “How many women can you ask before rumors wreck your scheme? Ten dollars to write the note and ten dollars to keep my mouth shut.” Her face showed absolutely no emotion. “That’s twenty, in advance. Now, do you have a draft of the letter you want written?”

  After she read my draft, she looked up at me with an odd expression I couldn’t fathom. “Will this harm the woman who supposedly wrote this letter?”

  “No. I’m trying to help her. She’s illiterate, or she would have written the letter herself. I need a feminine hand.”

  She gave me an empty stare. It was difficult to maintain direct eye contact. She evidently came to a decision and said, “Very well. May I see the twenty dollars?”

  I handed her four five-dollar certificates, and she stuffed them in her apron pocket. The woman’s demeanor made me curious, so I asked, “What do you intend to do with the money?”

  “Put it with my other millions.”

  Chapter 33

  Sam and I arrived at the lawyer’s outer office without an appointment, so his assistant tried to brush us off. When the assistant further learned that I did not have business that required gaining the ear of some powerful government figure, nor did I want to file a claim that made other ore discoveries look small, he insisted I write a letter requesting an appointment, which he told me could be arranged within a week or so.

  “I assume Mr. Jansen charges by the hour?”

  “He does.”

  “I’ll pay him two hours’ worth for fifteen minutes of his time. Tell him now, or I will barge into his office while my man here throws you to the floor and stomps your neck.”

  I meant this to be somewhat humorous, but the assistant jumped through the office door like he had suddenly encountered a coiled rattlesnake. This rough talk got results, but I reminded myself that if you picked the wrong target, you could get yourself shot instead of obeyed. I thought about apologizing to the assistant before I left the office, but I remembered that we were striving for a tough-as-nails image.

  After a few minutes, the assistant partially opened the door and peeked around the edge to see if we still fouled his anteroom. His Adam’s apple bobbed with an involuntary gulp, and he croaked, “Mr. Jansen will be with you gentlemen in just a few minutes. Please be patient.” He ducked back into the office and tugged the door until we heard a solid click and the twist of a deadbolt.

  Sam chuckled and said, “That little man sure scared easy.”

  “Must have been the nasty look you gave him.”

  “That, or word already got around town about your lack of cordiality at breakfast.”

  Sam made a good point. Gossip in Carson City probably moved faster than
the news did by the telegraph, especially gossip about some newcomers who beat up a hired gunfighter. I hoped that our reputation would make Jansen cooperative, because all I had to convince him was a chambermaid’s scribbled note.

  The office door opened, and a man who looked like a wealthy merchant hurried past us and out the door. In a moment, the assistant waved us in and warily took a side step around us to his chair in the lobby.

  After we entered, Jansen kept his back to us while he worked at a Wooton rolltop desk that teemed with paper-stuffed cubbyholes. We remained standing and kept quiet. The lawyer continued pretending to ignore us as he scratched notes on the margins of a legal document. When he finally deigned to turn around, he looked exactly like what he was: a highly connected and prosperous lawyer. He was clean-shaven and wore a clean three-piece suit with a silk cravat that probably cost more than I had given the chambermaid to commit a felony.

  He did not bother to extend a hand. “As you can see, gentlemen, I’m quite busy. Please be brief.”

  “My name is Steve Dancy. I’m the new owner and president of the Pickhandle Gulch Bank. I’m also a business associate of John Bolton and his family.”

  “You’re also a gunman and a brute. I understand you threatened to break my assistant’s neck.”

  “I’m afraid … actually I said my associate would stomp your assistant.” I used a tone of voice meant to convey that the threat was not to be taken seriously. “Perhaps we could have gotten off to a better start.” I reached into my suit-coat pocket and extracted a sealed envelope. Written in an obviously feminine hand, the outside of the envelope read, Mister Claude Jansen, Esquire. “These are instructions from Mrs. Bolton.”

  “The mother?” This question answered my question. John Bolton had used Jansen as his Carson City attorney. That meant I did not have to pay the chambermaid to address another envelope, and I suspected that each succeeding letter would cost more.

  “No, Jennifer Bolton. The two women do not get along. I represent John’s wife.”

  “Represent?”

  “An agent, so to speak.”

  Jansen looked at me askance and then ripped open the envelope. The letter told him that I was acting on Jenny’s behalf and that Jansen should provide me with a copy of her husband’s will.