Bill Pronzini - Quincannon

He had visited a stamp mill once before, in the Comstock Lode; he knew how they worked. The smaller pieces of ore that came tumbling down the chute went through a three-inch grizzly or grating into the feed bins; anything larger was shunted into a jaw crusher. The dressed ore was fed automatically to the stamps, where it was wet-stamped with a mixture of mercury, water, and patio reagents; the mercury drew the raw silver out of the slimes. At the end of a long process that included mulling, separating, and drainage, slugs of amalgam emerged and were delivered to retort furnaces that distilled off the quicksilver. The sponge matte was then melted and cast into bars in the adjacent melting room.

Quincannon waited ten minutes in the lanternlit enclosure, keeping out of the way of the sweating millhands, before Truax and his foreman finished their inspection and the fat mine owner turned toward the entrance. Truax recognized Quincannon with no outward show of surprise. He gestured that they go outside, where they could make themselves heard above the thunder of the iron-shod stamps.

“Well, Mr. Lyons, what brings you here?”

“A private matter,” Quincannon said. “I wonder if we might talk in your office?”

“I’m a busy man, you know. If it concerns salts or whatever it is you’re selling…”

“Not at all. It concerns buying, not selling.”

“Ah? Buying what?”

“Shares in the Paymaster Mining Company, perhaps, if they’re available.”

Truax’s expression changed; an avid sort of interest shone in his eyes. “Well, then, I’m sure I can spare you a few minutes. Yes, I’m sure I can. Come along, Mr. Lyons.”

He led the way up the stairs. The workers who had been harnessing the drays to the Studebaker wagon were gone now, but two other men had taken their place. One was dressed in standard miner’s clothing; the other, swarthy and half a head taller, wore a frock coat over gray twill trousers, and a Montana peaked hat. When the tall one spied Truax he came quickly away from the wagon.

Truax said, “Hello, Bogardus,” without enthusiasm. The tone of his voice and the look on his face told Quincannon that the swarthy man was not someone he liked.

Quincannon wondered if that was because of the rumors he’d heard about Jack Bogardus and Truax’s wife. He studied the owner of the Rattling Jack mine, who had acknowledged Truax’s greeting with a curt nod and was now staring at the man with thinly veiled hostility. He was about forty, clean-shaven except for thick sideburns, with a long dark face and the eyes of a hellfire preacher. Some women would find him attractive, Quincannon thought; those fiery eyes had a spellbinding quality.

“The wagon and team are ready for you,” Truax said, “as you’ve no doubt seen. Did you bring the cash?”

“Would I be here if I hadn’t?”

“Come along to the office.”

But Bogardus didn’t move. “One of those horses is spavined,” he said.

“Nonsense.”

“Right hock on the big gray. Look at it yourself.”

“I don’t need to look at it. Those horses are sound; so is the wagon. The price is five hundred, Bogardus, just as we agreed on. Not a penny less.”

Bogardus showed his teeth in a sardonic smile. “If I didn’t need that wagon I’d tell you to go to hell.”

“But you do need it, so you say. And no one else in Silver has one for sale. Besides, you can afford my price, now that you’ve struck your new vein.”

“A richer vein than you ever saw,” Bogardus said.

“Indeed? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe, Truax.”

“My time is valuable and you’re wasting it. I have business to discuss with this gentleman.” He nodded at Quincannon. “Five hundred cash, Bogardus. Will you pay it?”

Bogardus produced a money clip that held a thick sheaf of notes. From it he removed five one-hundred-dollar greenbacks. His fiery eyes remained fixed on Truax’s face; Quincannon might not have been there at all. “You’ll get these when I have a bill of sale,” he said.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“No more than you trust me.”

Truax made a laughing sound that had no mirth in it. He set out upslope; Bogardus stared after him for a moment and then followed, and Quincannon did the same. Inside the mine office Truax clumped past a man seated at a high desk piled with ledgers, went through a doorway into a private office, and sat down at a polished cherrywood desk that was much too ornate to have been made in Silver City. Neither Bogardus nor Quincannon shut the door when they entered. Bogardus slapped the five hundred-dollar notes on the desktop, kept his hand on them until Truax had written out a bill of sale and signed it and Bogardus had read it over. Truax added the greenbacks to others in a silver clip of his own; Bogardus put the bill of sale away inside his frock coat. Not a word was spoken through all of this, nor after the transaction was finished. The two men exchanged a final look, after which Bogardus turned on his heel and stalked out.

Quincannon closed the door and occupied a chair opposite Truax. “I take it you and Mr. Bogardus aren’t friends,” he said.

“Friends? The man is a scoundrel and worse.”

“How so, Mr. Truax?”

“For one thing, he is a fornicator. I cannot abide a fornicator.”

So Truax did know, or at least suspect, that his wife might be cuckolding him with Bogardus. Quincannon asked, “Is he also dishonest?”

“He is. Dishonesty is how he obtained his Rattling Jack mine two years ago.”

“Oh? A swindle?”

“Not precisely. The former owner, Jack Finkle, had it up for sale because of failing health — asking a fair price, I might add. Bogardus arranged two accidents at the mine, one that crippled Finkle’s son-in-law, in order to drive the selling price down to where he could afford it. Everyone knows it was his work, but nothing was ever proved.”

“The Rattling Jack is a well-paying mine, then?”

“It wasn’t until Bogardus struck a new vein six months ago. The old vein was gradually pinching out.” Truax’s voice was bitter; it was plain that he begrudged Bogardus his newfound wealth. “Now his ore is assaying at one hundred dollars a ton, so he claims. Half of what the Paymaster assays at twice the tonnage per day, but still substantial.”

“Is that why he needs a new freight wagon? To ship more of his silver?”

“Evidently. He lost his biggest wagon last week, I’m told; one of his drivers misjudged a turn coming down the pass road, his load shifted, and the wagon went over the side.” Truax said that last with satisfaction.

Quincannon asked, “Is Bogardus a native of Silver City?”

“No. Came here a few months before he purchased the Rattling Jack.”

“From where?”

“Somewhere in Oregon.” Truax frowned. “You seem unduly interested in Bogardus, Mr. Lyons.”

Quincannon smiled disarmingly. “Idle curiosity,” he said. “I fear I have an inquisitive nature.”

“Indeed.” Truax opened a humidor on his desk, took out an expensive cheroot, sniffed it, then picked up a pair of silver clippers and snipped off the end. He did not offer Quincannon one of the cigars. “Now then,” he said, when he had the cheroot burning to his satisfaction, “you wanted to discuss the purchase of Paymaster stock?”

“Yes. Are shares available?”

“Possibly. But you’ll pardon me, Mr. Lyons, if I ask how a patent medicine drummer can expect to buy valuable shares in one of the largest and most profitable silver mines in the state of Idaho.”

“Oh, it’s not I who is interested in purchasing the shares,” Quincannon said. “No, I am inquiring on behalf of the president of my company, Mr. Arthur Caldwell of San Francisco. You’ve heard of him, surely?”