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  Was there a connection between the counterfeiting operation and the Paymaster flimflam? It seemed unlikely, considering the obvious hatred Truax and Jack Bogardus shared for each other. Yet Helen Truax was the wife of one man and the mistress, past and present, of the other…

  Quincannon wanted another talk with her. And another talk with her husband. But both could wait until after he had responded to Marshal McClew’s summons, something he did not want to put off. Besides, there was a chance Boggs would wire him again today, and the more he knew, the easier it would be to deal with both of the Truaxes.

  He sent a telegram to San Francisco, laboring over it to give Boggs the full measure of his suspicions about Bogardus and the Rattling Jack mine without sacrificing secrecy. He also asked that as many other federal officers as were available be sent to Boise on a standby basis. He had to have more proof against Bogardus before he would be justified in calling for a federal arrest warrant and then organizing a raid on the Rattling Jack. But the time when he would have sufficient justification, he felt, was not far off.

  Leaving the Wells Fargo office, he went to a nearby saloon for a brace of whiskeys and a pickled egg. There was talk in the place of Yum Wing’s murder; the body had been found by other Chinese early this morning and word brought to the marshal’s office. No one seemed particularly stirred by the news. “Don’t make no difference who killed him,” the bartender said. “Did the community a service. Like it said in yesterday’s paper, opium’s filthy stuff; man who sells it ain’t no better than a dog.”

  Quincannon left the bartender to his bias and walked over to Washington Street to the courthouse. The marshal’s office was in the basement; he passed under the sign that said JAIL, went down three steps and through a heavy ironbound door. McClew was the only occupant, seated at a battered kneehole desk with a mug of coffee and a plate of eggs and potatoes in front of him. Egg yolk stained his mustaches; a splatter of it had even somehow found its way onto the brim of his plug hat. He looked up as Quincannon entered, gestured with his fork toward a slat-backed chair near the desk, and went on eating.

  Quincannon sat down. Somebody behind a closed door that would lead to the cellblock began yelling in a hoarse voice, “Marshal! Hey, Marshal! Goddamn it, where’s my goddamn breakfast? You promised me my goddamn breakfast two hours ago!”

  McClew lifted his head and yelled over his shoulder, “Shut up, Dewey, or I’ll come in there and knock your goddamn head off your goddamn shoulders.” Dewey subsided. McClew nodded, said to Quincannon, “Drunks is bad enough when they’re drunk but they’re worse pains in the arse the morning after,” and forked a last bite of egg into his mouth. Then he finished his coffee, belched, used his tie to wipe the egg yolk off his mustaches (but not off is plug hat), and sat back comfortably with his hands folded over his middle.

  “I am Andrew Lyons, Marshal,” Quincannon said.

  “I gathered.” McClew studied him for a time. “Looks like you had yourself some trouble, son.”

  “Trouble?”

  “That cut on your head. And you move kind of stiff, like a man that’s been in a fight.”

  Quincannon laughed. “I have a touch of lumbago. As for the cut… well, I hesitate to admit it, but I fear I’m a bit clumsy. I tripped over the throw rug in my room last night and struck my head against the bedpost.”

  “Uh-huh,” McClew said noncommittally. He gestured at a crusty old pot-bellied stove in one corner. “Coffee’s hot, if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks, no. What was it you wanted to see me about, Marshal?”

  “Questions,” McClew said.

  “Sir?”

  “Questions. The ones you been asking all over town.”

  “About Whistling Dixon, you mean.”

  “Among other folks. Awful lot of questions for a snake oil drummer, seems like.”

  “I am not a snake oil drummer,” Quincannon said in offended tones. “I am an authorized representative of Caldwell Associates of San Francisco, agents for Dr. Wallmann’s Nerve and Brain Salts — a legitimate and highly respected patent medicine.”

  McClew shrugged. “Still and all, you ask a lot of questions for any kind of drummer.”

  “Whistling Dixon was a friend from many years ago. He worked for my father in Oregon when I was a boy.”

  “Is that a fact.”

  “Yes. Naturally I was upset when I learned he’d been murdered the very night I arrived in Silver City.”

  “Naturally. So you figured you’d just ask around and see could you find out who done for him.”

  “Yes.”

  “How come you asked half the town but you never come and asked me? Seems the city marshal’s office’d be your first stop.”

  “I tried several times to see you, Marshal,” Quincannon lied. “Our paths never seemed to cross.”

  “Oh, come on now, Mr. Lyons,” McClew said mildly. “I ain’t all that hard to find. Most of the time I’m right here in my office.”

  “Most of the time, perhaps. Not all the time. I’m sorry, but I did intend to talk to you. I would have come here this very morning, in fact, even if you hadn’t summoned me.”

  “Well, I sure am happy to hear that,” McClew said without irony. He rummaged a plug of Rock Candy chewing tobacco out of his vest pocket, sliced off a chunk with a penknife, and popped the chunk into his mouth. He chewed in silence for several seconds, working the quid to a juiciness; then he leaned over, spat into a dented brass cuspidor, and said, “Nothing like a good chew after breakfast.”

  “I prefer a pipe myself.”

  “Pipes is all right, I guess.” The marshal spat again. “Tell me, Mr. Lyons, you find out anything about old Dixon’s murder I ought to know about?”

  “No, nothing. I’ve been wasting my time, it seems.”

  “Well, you must’ve found out something. You been seeing a lot of folks, asking about others besides Dixon. Jason Elder, for instance.”

  “Elder was an acquaintance of Dixon’s and he seems to have disappeared. I thought perhaps there might be some connection between the two facts.”

  “Such as maybe Elder shot that old waddy?”

  “Such as that.”

  “Where’d you hear them two was acquainted?”

  “Here and there. I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Never knew old Dixon to have any friends in town, least of all a tramp printer that smoked opium for a hobby.”

  Quincannon spread his hands. “I only know what I heard. You don’t believe Elder might have murdered Dixon?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then who do you think did kill him?”

  “Can’t say. Outlaws, maybe.”

  “So then you haven’t learned anything definite, either.”

  “Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t,” McClew said evasively. “I’m working on it.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “Yep, always working, that’s me. I’m a working fool. Too much crime these days — too damned much.”

  Quincannon was silent.

  “You take murder, now,” McClew said. “Up until old Dixon got himself shot, we hadn’t had a murder in or about Silver City in close to five months. Now all of a sudden we got us a regular slaughter.”

  “Slaughter, Marshal?”

  “Well, maybe that’s too strong a word.” McClew fired another stream of tobacco juice at the cuspidor; this one missed completely and he said, “Hell.” Then he said, “Chinaman got himself hung last night. Important fella in that bunch, name of Yum Wing. You ever heard of him?”

  “Yes. Will Coffin mentioned his name on the stage the other night. I also read Coffin’s editorial in yesterday’s Volunteer.”

  “You talk to him? Yum Wing, I mean.”

  Quincannon hesitated, but only for a second. “I did, yes. I thought he might know what had happened to Jason Elder.”

  “Because Elder was a dope fiend and old Yum Wing peddled the stuff.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he
know what had become of Elder?”

  “If he did he wouldn’t tell me. Who do you think killed him, Marshal?”

  “Can’t say yet. Figured maybe you’d have an idea.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t,” Quincannon said. “Unless it was somebody who used Will Coffin’s editorial as an excuse to take the law into his own hands. A very inflammatory piece of writing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would,” McClew agreed. “Could have happened that way, all right. Always a few damn fool hotheads looking to make trouble. And plenty of folks don’t like the Chinese because they got different ways and a different skin.” He paused. “What’s your feelings along them lines?”

  “I think a man is a man, no matter what color his skin. I think he ought to be allowed to live his life as he sees fit, as long as he doesn’t harm anyone else.”

  McClew seemed to approve of that. He had himself another spit, missed his target again, and then shook his head. “Three murders inside a week,” he said. “Yessir, that may not be enough to be called a slaughter, but it sure comes close enough in my book.”

  “Three murders?”

  “Didn’t I mention the third one? No, I guess I didn’t. Sam Morant, works out at the Whiskey Gulch mine, spotted the corpse yesterday afternoon, down in a canyon off an old road ain’t used much anymore. Too many rockslides. But Sam ain’t got much sense and he uses it as a short cut to town. Anyways, he rode in and told me and I rode back out there with him and had a look. Had to leave the body where it laid, though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Couldn’t get all the way down to it. Sheer walls and no other way into that part of the canyon. But I got close enough so’s I could take a good look at him through my spyglass.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “Might have, but the damned birds and coyotes had been at him and wasn’t much left of his face. Been down there close to a week, I’d say. Poor bastard. Looked like he’d been tortured some before he died.”

  “Tortured? What makes you say that?”

  “Burn marks all over what was left of him. Kind a cigar end or the like makes on a man’s flesh.”

  Quincannon digested this before he spoke again. “Have you any idea who the man was?”

  “Well, now, I know who he was. Whoever chucked him into that canyon didn’t pay enough attention to what he was doing. Or maybe it was night and he just didn’t see what happened. Anyhow, some things come out of the dead man’s pocket on his way down and a couple of ’em got caught up in some brush. Which is where I found ’em.”

  McClew opened a drawer in his desk, took out a card, and slid it over to where Quincannon could read it. It was a torn and ink-stained union card — the International Typographical Union — and the name on it was Jason Elder.

  Quincannon looked up without touching the card. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” he said.

  “Somehow I didn’t figure you would be.”

  “Marshal, if that is an insinuation that I might have had something to do with Elder’s death, I must remind you that I have only been in Silver City three days. And you yourself said that Elder’s corpse has been in that canyon for close to a week.”

  “So I did,” McClew said. “But I wasn’t insinuating anything, Mr. Lyons. No sir, not me. Just trying to get to the bottom of things.” He paused for another spit. “I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about Elder being killed, either?”

  “No more than I know abut Whistling Dixon’s death, or Yum Wing’s.”

  “I figured not. Tell me, you expect to go on asking questions like you have been?”

  “Not if you’d rather I didn’t.”

  “Too many cooks spoil the broth, if you take my meaning. Besides, you ain’t a lawman.”

  “That’s right,” Quincannon said, “I’m not. Very well, Marshal. I will cease and desist and leave the detecting to you.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you say that. How long you figuring to stay in Silver, if you don’t mind saying?”

  “Not much longer. My business here is about finished.”

  “Well, I hope you been selling plenty of nerve and brain salts. Quite a few folks around here could use some fortifying of both.”

  “I’ve been fortunate thus far.”

  “Yes you have,” McClew said meaningfully. He watched Quincannon get on his feet. “If you should happen to hear anything I might like to know, or remember anything you might’ve forgot to tell me just now, you come see me again before you leave. I’ll be around for you to find. And I expect the vice versa’ll be true too, if needs be.”

  “Just as you say, Marshal.”

  From behind the door to the cellblock, the man named Dewey began shouting again for his breakfast. McClew, looking put-upon, was yelling back at him, “Dewey, damn your drunken soul, if you don’t shut your face I’ll lock you up for a week with them women from the Temperance Union,” as Quincannon went out the door.

  Chapter 14

  From the courthouse he made his way to the nearest saloon for whiskey. McClew was a shrewd man, he though as he drank; there was no gainsaying that. And for all appearances, an honest one. He had been favorably impressed by the man — but he still wasn’t ready to take the marshal into his confidence, not while he was on his own here. McClew’s help could be solicited after Samuel Greenspan arrived. Meanwhile, he would have to be circumspect in how he conducted his investigation.

  Quincannon ordered a second whiskey, which was a mistake. It made him woozy; last night’s beating had weakened him more than he cared to admit. Outside again, he stood for a time in the warming wind to let his head clear. Then, still moving at a retarded pace in deference to his bruised ribs, he left the downtown area, crossed Jordan Creek, and went up Morning Star Street.

  As he walked he pondered what McClew had told him about Jason Elder. The tramp printer’s death was hardly unexpected; nor was there much surprise in the fact that Elder had been tortured before he was killed. Conrad again? Bogardus? One or the other seemed likely. It was also likely that the purpose of the torture had been to force Elder to reveal the whereabouts of the item, whatever it was, that he had given to Yum Wing for safekeeping. And if Whistling Dixon had been assigned the task of disposing of Elder’s corpse, it would explain how he had come by Elder’s brand new watch: he had simply removed it from the dead man’s pocket before dumping the body.

  Some of the pieces were beginning to fit together now. But others remained puzzling, and one of the largest of those was Helen Truax.

  He turned off Morning Star toward where the Truax mansion sat on its lofty perch, looking down on the rest of Silver City. As he approached he saw that the buggy Mrs. Truax had been driving last night, with the dappled gray in harness, stood waiting before the carriage barn to one side of the main house; he took that to mean she was home. He opened the front gate, went up the path to the veranda stairs.

  But he had only climbed two when a woman’s voice, shrill with anger and loud enough to be heard above the pound of the stamp mills, came from inside and off to the right.

  Quincannon stood still, listening. He thought he heard a man’s voice, and then the woman’s again, just as shrill and just as angry; but the words of both were indistinct. He backed down off the stairs, followed another path that paralleled a thick row of lilac bushes along the right side of the house. Halfway back, a pair of French windows had been opened to admit fresh air and the morning sun. The voices were coming from inside there, and when he drew closer he could hear what was being said.

  “… tell you, I won’t do it!”

  “Yes you will. You’ll do just as I say.”

  “I won’t, damn you!”

  There was a sharp smacking noise, flesh against flesh, followed by a small cry. Quincannon eased into the bushes on the near side of the window, poked his head over the top of one and peered through the crack where the inner edge of the window hinged outward. At first the only person he could see was Helen Truax, standing next to a mah
ogany music cabinet with one hand to her cheek and her eyes blazing. Quincannon moved his head slightly, to improve the field of his vision. More of the room appeared — a sitting room, filled with expensive furniture — and finally he saw the man who had struck her, in hard profile a few steps away.

  It surprised him not at all that the man was Jack Bogardus.

  She said, “You shouldn’t have hit me, Jack. Not in my own house.”

  “Your house. Hell. None of this is yours; it belongs to that fat son of a bitch you married.”

  “You shouldn’t hit me,” she said again, in the same cold, angry voice.

  “I’ll hit you any time I please,” Bogardus said. “Here or anywhere else.” He smiled at her without humor. “Besides, you know you like rough handling.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do, Helen. Same as you like me coming here while your pig of a husband is at the Paymaster. Same as you like what we do while I’m here.”

  “Don’t talk that way. I don’t like vulgar talk.”

  Bogardus laughed, as if she had told a particularly funny joke. He put his back to the window, went to where a cut-glass decanter and matching glasses sat on a sideboard, and poured himself a drink. When he turned again, to look at Helen Truax, he also faced the window at something of an oblique angle. Quincannon lowered his head, even though Bogardus’ attention was fixed on the woman.

  “Well?” Bogardus said. “More argument?”

  She folded her arms across her heavy breasts and hugged herself as if she might be feeling a chill. “I don’t like it, Jack. Hasn’t there been enough of that already?” The anger had faded from her voice; now she sounded nervous and perhaps a little afraid.

  “Yes,” he said. “Too much. But it can’t be helped.”

  “Why do I have to be the one?”

  “We’ve already discussed that.”