The Shopkeeper Read online

  “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.”

  “Ya already have. Like a barnyard cat, these boys like to play with their prey before they kill.”

  “First they’ll need to trap me behind a crate. I’ll stay in open field.”

  Sharp looked at me and then shook his head in defeat. “Suit yourself.”

  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?”

  “I had a bad experience at Mary’s this morning.”

  “Hardly seems likely. She’s the best cook hereabouts.”

  “Not the food. Something else.” I motioned toward the center of the store. “Let’s sit, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  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 refu
sed to scurry away in panic.

  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.”<
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  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.”