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  He waited until Will Coffin had claimed a bulky grip, then took up his own warbag. The newspaperman seemed preoccupied now and had evidently forgotten his earlier interest in Dr. Wallmann’s Nerve and Brain Salts. Quincannon saw no reason to press him. Coffin tipped his hat to Sabina Carpenter and disappeared into the crowds.

  The woman came to Quincannon’s side. “My shop is on Avalanche Avenue, between Jordan and Washington,” she said. “If you should happen to be interested in a hat during your stay in Silver.”

  “I doubt that I will be,” he said. “I already have a good hat.”

  “Mine are quite reasonably priced.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “Well, in any event,” she said, “perhaps we’ll see each other again before you leave.”

  “Perhaps. Though I expect most of my time will be occupied.”

  “In selling salts?”

  “That is my job, Miss Carpenter.”

  “Yes, of course. And I have no doubt that you’re adept at it. Good evening, Mr. Lyons.”

  “Good evening.”

  He walked downhill toward a sign that said War Eagle Hotel. Sabina Carpenter remained in his thoughts. What was the nature of her apparent interest in him? He was a man not unattractive to women; perhaps her boldness stemmed from that. And yet, he felt it was something else, something less personal. It could have nothing to do with his purpose in Silver City — or could it? Depending on where the man named Whistling Dixon led him, he might have to change his mind and visit her millinery shop after all.

  At the hotel he registered and dropped off his bag in his room, then went out to the nearest saloon. He drank two whiskeys quickly, nursed a third. The place was jammed with cowpunchers, millhands, mine workers, and their mood was boisterous and friendly; he managed to engage three different men in conversation, confirming from them that Whistling Dixon was, as Coffin had told him, an old Owyhee cowhand some sixty years old. Dixon, whose nickname stemmed from a penchant for constant, tuneless whistling, was neither liked nor disliked; the attitude toward him seemed to be neutral, for the most part because the man kept to himself. He had no family and no friends to speak of, spending his free time either at the Ox-Yoke ranch on Cow Creek, where he worked, or hunting and prospecting in the back country. He came to town no more than once a month, on the average.

  There was nothing in any of that to suggest how Dixon might be tied in with a gang of counterfeiters. A false lead after all? Quincannon needed much more information before making a judgment either way.

  As for coney coins and greenbacks, a subject he broached carefully, none seemed to have been passed in Silver City. Which added a further point in favor of the boodle game being centered in this area. No smart gang of koniakers would try to shove queer in their own bailiwick; and there was no question that this gang was smart.

  Quincannon stopped at two other saloons, this time engaging a variety of townsmen in conversation. Little was known about Sabina Carpenter. She had arrived in Silver City from Denver three weeks ago, opened her millinery shop, and taken up residence at the only boarding house in town that catered to women. Although she mingled well and often in local society, she spoke little of personal matters. The consensus seemed to be that she was either a recent widow or a woman retrenching after a bad marriage or an unhappy love affair.

  Oliver Truax was one of Silver’s wealthy paragons. He had been a Boise merchant when his brother Amos, who had founded the Paymaster mine, died of congestive heart failure and willed the mine to him. That had been five years ago. Truax ran the Paymaster himself, and within the past year had become dissatisfied with its ore yield and its profits; thus he had formed the Paymaster Mining Company, retained its controlling stock, and opened up the balance of shares to public investors. Apparently most of the money realized from that venture had been put back into the mine, in the form of better equipment and more men to step up production.

  Truax often made business trips to Boise, Portland, and Seattle — all cities where large amounts of queer had been shoved, Quincannon noted — and from one such trip to Oregon some ten months ago he had returned with his new young wife. Her background, like Sabina Carpenter’s, was murky. And she was not well thought of in town; there were broad hints that she had been unfaithful to her husband with a man named Jack Bogardus, the owner of another, smaller silver mine on the south side of War Eagle Mountain, the Rattling Jack. Truax, though he was not actively disliked, was not a popular figure in town — nor among his employees, from whom he demanded hard work and long hours for mediocre wages. Most considered him avaricious, pompous, and a poor blind fool for having married “Helen Roundheels,” as one man called her.

  Will Coffin had been in Silver three years, having bought the Volunteer from its retiring founder in the summer of 1890. Coffin came from Kansas and had a background as a tramp printer and newspaperman. The fact that Coffin himself was a skilled printer interested Quincannon; but he could find out nothing more on that aspect of the man’s life.

  As for Jason Elder, the Volunteer ’s part-time compositor, Quincannon also learned little. Elder had worked for Coffin for more than a year, but only sporadically in the past few months as a result of his opium addiction. No one knew where he obtained the money to support his habit. He was a reticent man, one who was regarded with suspicion for that reason, because of his addiction, and because he regularly kept company with Silver City’s Chinese population. He lived in a shack at the end of Owyhee Street, on the edge of the Chinese quarter.

  There were two schools of opinion as to the competency of Marshal Wendell McClew. The one to which Oliver Truax belonged considered him lazy, slow-witted, and unable or unwilling to cope with Silver’s various criminal and communal problems. The other school painted him as a quiet, shrewd lawman who was tough when he had to be and who accomplished as much in his low-key way as any flamboyant peace officer ever could. Both sides seemed to consider him reasonably honest, though the more vehement among his detractors allowed as how they “had reservations” along those lines. The inconclusiveness as to McClew’s true nature convinced Quincannon that it would be unwise to reveal his identity and purpose to the marshal, at least at this early stage of his investigation. For all he knew, McClew could be a member of the counterfeiting gang, bought and paid for to provide safety and security in this jurisdiction. No, he would have to play a lone hand for a while, until he gathered more information on a variety of fronts.

  It was nearly nine o’clock when he returned to his hotel. He still had no appetite, but the whiskey he had consumed on his rounds had made him woozy and he had no desire for another hangover tomorrow. He forced himself to eat supper in the hotel dining room before retiring. And forbore his usual nightcap when he got into bed.

  But for the second night in a row, sleep eluded him — this time because of the dull hammering pulse of the round-the-clock stamp mills, a noise that would take some getting used to. And when he finally did sleep, a long time later, he was plagued by confused dream images of Katherine Bennett that kept mingling with those of Sabina Carpenter, only to be joined by others of his mother. He awoke once, trembling and cold, to the shrill barking of a dog somewhere nearby. In his dream it had sounded like a woman screaming.

  An hour past sunup, warmed by his first two drinks of the day, Quincannon left the hotel carrying his sample case. This promised to be a busy day. A talk with Whistling Dixon was indicated, of course, but not just yet. Will Coffin was another he intended to see, as was the Volunteer ’s opium-eating printer, Jason Elder. He also needed to establish his cover identity as a traveling agent for nerve and brain salts, which meant visits to the drugstores in town — a task he would dispose of before giving his attention to the job at hand.

  The mountain air was cold, crisp, but the sun had taken the edge off the night’s chill. Up the slopes of War Eagle, the mica particles in the long drifts of greenish-white tailings caught the sunlight and made the drifts glisten like new snow. Jordan Street
was as crowded as it had been last night, though with a different sort of activity. Ore wagons, empty and laden both, rattled up and down the steep incline, on their way to and from the mines; mingled with them were broughams, buckboards, and freight wagons carrying machinery, produce, hides, scores of other products. Swampers and merchants worked busily at the storefronts, preparing to open their various establishments for the day.

  Powder blasts in the mines added rolling thunder echoes to the morning din as Quincannon made his way to the Wells Fargo office, where the Western Union telegrapher was housed. He wrote out a message to Boggs, paid for it, and asked that it be sent immediately. It read:

  TO ARTHUR CALDWELL, CALDWELL ASSOCIATES, PHELAN BLDG, SAN FRANCISCO

  ARRIVED LAST NIGHT STOP PROSPECTS APPEAR GOOD EXCEPT PRINCIPAL YOUR AGE COMMA NATIVE THIS AREA COMMA AND IN SAME BUSINESS YOUR NEPHEW CHARLES STOP WIRE DETAILS SOONEST STOP DO YOU KNOW TOWN MARSHAL WENDELL MCCLEW QMK HE MAY BE OLD FRIEND OF YOURS BUT AM NOT SURE STOP WILL COMMUNICATE AGAIN WHEN HAVE NEWS OR HAVE MADE IMPORTANT SALE

  ANDREW LYONS

  Boggs’ nephew Charles had worked as a cowhand for a variety of cattle ranches in Texas, before a horse threw him one day in 1886 and broke his neck. Boggs would understand the necessity for more information on Whistling Dixon, and step up his own inquiries into the man’s background. He would also understand Quincannon’s uncertainty about McClew and pursue a line of inquiry into the marshal’s background as well.

  From the telegrapher Quincannon learned that there were two drugstores operating in Silver and that the nearest was on Washington Street above the courthouse. He went to that one by way of Avalanche Avenue, a deliberate route that took him past Sabina Carpenter’s millinery shop. The shop occupied the upper floor of a building above a tonsorial parlor, and was still closed. Most of the other business establishments were already open for the day, including the barber’s; he wondered why she had not yet opened hers. It annoyed him that she was a mystery he had so far been unable to solve. Annoyed him, too, that he should be bothered, made uncomfortable by her. That damned resemblance to Katherine Bennett…

  At the drugstore he spent fifteen minutes convincing the pharmacist to buy six cases of Dr. Wallmann’s Nerve and Brain Salts. The man was skeptical at first; he had shelves full of such patent medicines, he said, and had difficulty selling those. Quincannon allowed him to buy the six cases at “a special reduced rate,” just so Andrew Lyons could claim the sale.

  Outside again, he started down toward the courthouse, with the intention of finding the second drugstore. But he had gone less than half a block when a light spring wagon came clattering out of one of the side streets ahead and veered over to the courthouse. The middle-aged and bespectacled driver brought his horses to a stop near a sign that said JAIL, jumped down, and began yelling excitedly, “Marshal! Marshal McClew!” even before he disappeared inside the jail.

  From where he stood uphill Quincannon could see into the back of the wagon; a bulky shape wrapped in canvas had been roped to one of the sides. He crossed the street, reached the wagon just as the driver and a tall, mustachioed man wearing a plug hat and a marshal’s badge pinned to his cutaway coat came rushing out. The driver was saying, “Found him out in Slaughterhouse Gulch, Marshal. What a sight for a man to come on before breakfast!”

  “Shot, you say?”

  “See for yourself.”

  The bespectacled man moved to untie the ropes. Quincannon stepped closer, along with half a dozen others who had been attracted by the brief commotion. The ropes came loose; a stained flap of the canvas was thrown back.

  The body inside was that of a man dressed in rough trail garb — a gray-haired, grizzled man of about sixty. His lower jaw had been shot away, but evidently there was still enough of his face intact for identification purposes.

  “Well, hell and damn,” the plug-hatted man said. “Now who would want to shoot a harmless old waddy like Whistling Dixon?”

  Chapter 5

  Quincannon moved a step closer to the wagon. The crowd of onlookers had grown; an excited buzzing ran among the men, like the sound of disturbed bees.

  The wagon driver said, “Maybe it was robbery. Outlaws all over these mountains, you know that.”

  Marshal McClew made a snorting noise. “Whistling Dixon never carried more than a dollar in his life, and that’s a fact.”

  “Outlaws don’t know it.”

  “Were you an outlaw, Henry, would you pick him as a target?” McClew ran a thoughtful finger over each of his mustaches. “Found him in Slaughterhouse Gulch, you said. Whereabouts?”

  “By that stand of willows where the creek branch runs through. I wouldn’t have seen him, back under the trees, except the crows was at him.”

  “Didn’t get his eyes, at least. Sign of his horse?”

  “No.”

  “Anybody else around?”

  “Didn’t see anybody.”

  McClew lifted the dead man’s arm, let it fall again limply. “Rigor mortis has come and gone,” he said. “Been dead a while. Since early last night sometime.”

  “Bushwhacked, probably. Has to be outlaws, Marshal.”

  “Maybe,” McClew said. “Maybe.”

  “Well, what you want done with the body?”

  “Take it up to Turnbuckle’s. I’ll go with you. Then we’ll notify Doc Petersen, and you can run me out to Slaughterhouse Gulch.”

  “Me? Hell, I’m already late for work at the livery…”

  “Can’t be helped. I need you to show me just where you found him.”

  The driver, Henry, climbed grumbling to the wagon seat. McClew started around to the other side, seemed to notice the gathering crowd for the first time, and stopped. “You men — go on about your business. This ain’t a public meetingplace. Disperse. Move along!”

  Whether he was liked or not, his words carried weight in Silver City: the crowd immediately began to break up. McClew took his place next to Henry, who snapped the reins and brought his team around and out onto Washington Street. As the wagon rattled away uphill, Quincannon asked one of the men walking near him, “Would Turnbuckle’s be an undertaking parlor?”

  “It would. Opposite the brewery, two blocks up.”

  Quincannon walked half a block in that direction, until he came to a saloon. Inside at the plank bar he spent five minutes with a shot of whiskey, timing it by the gold stemwinder his father had given him on his twenty-first birthday. Then he went out again and climbed toward the barnlike building that housed Silver’s own brewery, marked by a blackened brick chimney belching smoke.

  Opposite the brewery was a squat building with a facade of white-painted fretwork and a sign that read: N.R. TURNBUCKLE, UNDERTAKER AND CASKET MAKER. The street in front was empty; so was the rutted and weed-choked alleyway that ran alongside. There was no sign of Henry’s light spring wagon.

  Quincannon ran hard across the street to the undertaking parlor, a ploy to quicken his breathing, and opened the front door to the melody of a little bell. Inside was a hallway and, to one side, a large room with rows of benches and a bier at one end — the place where funeral services were held. A door at the rear of the hall opened momentarily and a small, dapper, balding man emerged and came toward him. Except for his eyes, the man’s face was expressionless and might have been molded of soft white clay. The eyes were the saddest Quincannon had ever seen.

  “Yes, sir. May I be of service?”

  Panting a little, putting gravity and shock into his voice, Quincannon said, “Marshal McClew and Henry, from the livery, just brought you a dead man. Whistling Dixon, by name.”

  “Why… yes, they did. How did you know — ?”

  “I happened to be near the jail… a tragedy, a dreadful tragedy. My name is Andrew Lyons, from San Francisco. You’re Mr. Turnbuckle?”

  “Yes, I am. But I don’t — ”

  “Whistling Dixon was a close friend of my father’s,” Quincannon said, “and a second father to me when I was a boy growing up along the
Rogue River. I hadn’t seen him in, oh, it must be fifteen years. My business brought me to Silver City just last night — I am an agent for Dr. Wallmann’s Nerve and Brain Salts, you see — and as I knew Mr. Dixon lived in this area, it was my hope we could renew our friendship after so many years. And now this… this tragedy… it’s most distressing.”

  Turnbuckle blinked his sad eyes, absorbing what Quincannon had said. Then he murmured, “Of course, Mr. Lyons. A terrible shock for you, I’m sure.”

  “Terrible,” Quincannon repeated. “I wonder… I know it’s most irregular, but would it be possible for me to see him briefly?”

  “See him? Well, I don’t — ”

  “I find it so hard to believe he’s dead, murdered. If I could see him for just a minute…”

  “The body is not pleasant to look at, Mr. Lyons. He was shot, you know, and his face — ”

  “Violent death has little effect on me,” Quincannon said. “I was raised in Indian country, as I said.”

  Turnbuckle seemed to be weakening. But he said, “The coroner, Dr. Petersen, will be here soon.”

  “I’ll leave as soon as he arrives. A minute with my poor, murdered friend. That is not too much to ask, is it, Mr. Turnbuckle? Surely?”

  “Well, I… no, I suppose it isn’t…”

  Quincannon stepped forward and clasped the undertaker’s hand, saying, “Thank you, sir, thank you so much,” and at the same time turning him so that they were both moving down the hallway.

  Turnbuckle led him to the door at the rear, through it into his workroom. Embalming machinery gleamed in the light from two lamps; so did the undertaker’s needles and razors and other tools of his trade, shut away inside glass-fronted cabinets. The unpleasant chemical smell of formaldehyde was strong in the room. Whistling Dixon’s corpse lay on a slab in its center, uncovered and face up, the dead eyes staring at eternity.