Ralph Compton - Bluff City

“You leave him be, Harve.”

The door closed behind him. Melanie picked up the spoon and dipped it in the oatmeal, then set it down again. She fiddled with the tablecloth, and when the clatter of the carriage faded, she rose, paid for her meal, and hurried out.

The Courier staff was busy with various duties. Jerome Stanley was at his desk, lighting his pipe. Clay Adams was at the front counter, rifling through a pile of subscription forms.

“What on earth did you think you were doing?”

Clay did not stop rifling. “Good morning to you, too, Miss Stanley. I trust you slept well?”

Melanie came around the counter to stand next to him. “Harve Barker paid me a visit this morning. Are you insane? He is the most dangerous man in these parts.”

“He’s second on the list.”

“Quit quibbling and answer me. Why did you brace him? Why did you tell him I am your woman?”

Clay looked up. “You are?” He grinned broadly. “I would like to take credit but I can’t.”

Before they could say more, a cloud of aromatic pipe smoke wreathed them. “Whatever you two are bickering about can wait,” Jerome Stanley said. “The payroll to the Cavendish Silver Mine was stolen last night. Jesse Stark’s bunch again. I want the two of you to find out all you can and get back to me in time for today’s edition.”

“What?” Clay Adams said.

“The two of us?” Melanie asked almost in the same heartbeat.

“Clay wants to be a reporter, doesn’t he? And you, dear niece, are the best I have, which makes you the most qualified to teach him.” Jerome Stanley puffed on his pipe. “Off you go, and for God’s sake, watch yourselves. Stark should be long gone by now, but you never know. If he gets his hands on you, there’s no telling what he will do.”

Chapter 10

The mud wagon was stifling hot and thick with dust. The vice president of the Greater Bank of Bluff City could not stop coughing.

Clay Adams did not mind the dust or the heat. He was used to a lot worse. The mud wagon was climbing yet another steep grade on its way to the Cavendish mine when he turned to Melanie Stanley. “You don’t mind being bounced up and down until your teeth rattle?”

Melanie grinned. “It comes with the job. And no, I don’t mind at all. I will do whatever it takes to get news. It’s what I do.”

The vice president coughed some more. He had covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief but it did not help. “This is awful. Just awful. I wish Mr. Winslow were here so he could handle it.”

Clay arched an eyebrow at Melanie. “Winslow?”

“The Greater Bank’s president. He is off in St. Louis on business and won’t be back for two weeks yet, so Mr. Franks, here, has to fill in for him.”

The vice president nodded. A spindly man with bony knuckles and knobby knees that pressed against his too-tight pants, he whined, “It’s not fair. A disaster like this falling on my shoulders.”

“The payroll was robbed, Mr. Franks,” Melanie said. “If you ask me, it is not much of a calamity. Your bank is the second largest in Bluff City. It can absorb the loss.”

“That’s not the point, Miss Stanley,” Franks said. “We don’t want anyone to think we can’t safeguard their money. Nervous depositors lead to a run, and a run on a bank can lead to ruin.”

“But the Cavendish mine is responsible for getting the payroll from the bank to the mine,” Melanie noted.

“You know that and I know that, but most people do not,” Franks said worriedly. “As sure as I am sitting here, they will blame the bank. Then there is Sam Cavendish. That ornery old coot has been threatening to take his business to the First Bank of Bluff City, and this might be the shove he needs.”

Again Melanie explained. “Sam Cavendish was prospecting down in Arizona when he heard about the silver on Bluff Mountain. He wasn’t here a week when he struck it big. Now he owns the third largest mine around, right after the Jones Silver Mine and the Barker Silver Mine.”

“Harve Barker owns his own mine?”

“He won it in a high-stakes poker game,” Melanie said. “The previous owner couldn’t hold his liquor. One night he had a hand he was sure couldn’t be beat and bet the deed to his mine. He lost.”

“If Barker had his way,” Franks mentioned, “he would own all the businesses in town, if not the entire territory. I have never seen anyone so money hungry. The man has bought every square acre that isn’t spoken for.”

“You sound like you don’t much care for him,” Clay remarked.

“I never implied any such thing,” Franks said, “and I will take an oath to that effect if you should spread word that I have.”

The mud wagon came to a switchback. The crack of the driver’s whip was like the crack of a pistol. The wagon swayed and jounced, and it was all they could do to stay in their seats. Beyond the switchback was a meadow, and for a short span they rode in relative comfort. Then another grade canted the wagon bed, and Clay and Melanie were thrown against one another. Clay quickly pulled back, and she smiled.

Franks was clinging to the door. “I hate mountain travel. Given my druthers, I would much rather be at my desk.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Clay said. “How much was the payroll for?”

“A few hundred short of twenty thousand dollars,” Franks disclosed. “The biggest payroll for the mine ever. Sam Cavendish added a third shift a month ago.”

“What’s he like, this Cavendish?”

Franks smiled. “You will find out for yourself soon enough, Mr. Adams. We should arrive at the mine in about half an hour.”

The prediction proved true. Several plank buildings were clustered on a broad bench within a few hundred feet of a dark cavity that marked the entrance. Workers were bustling about. One building bore a large sign that read CAVENDISH SILVER MINE. TRESPASSERS

WILL BE SHOT. On the porch stood a grizzled older man bellowing orders. He wore a flannel shirt and overalls that had not seen soap and water in a month of Sundays, and a straw hat with a split brim.

“That there is Cavendish,” Franks said. “Be careful he doesn’t bite your head off.”

“He doesn’t even know me,” Clay said.

“That’s never stopped him before.”

Another man, his rotund bulk clothed in ill-fitting clothes, scampered to meet the mud wagon. Nervously wringing his hands, he displayed a mouth full of yellow teeth. “Mr. Franks! Grand of you to get here so quickly. Mr. Cavendish is fit to be tied. He expected someone sooner.”

Franks had the look of a man who had swallowed a cactus. “He is aware the bank president is out of town?”

“Oh, yes, indeed.” The man bowed slightly to Melanie and said, “As always, ma’am, a pleasure. The last time you were up here was when you did that series on mine owners.”

“You have a good memory, Mr. Teckler.”

“It’s why I’m the company bookkeeper,” Teckler said.

Sam Cavendish was striding toward them and glowering fiercely. “It’s about time you showed up,” he lit into Franks. “Some bank you work for!”

“We take pride in the services we offer,” Franks answered. “Just as we take pride in helping our friends.”

“I may be many things,” Sam Cavendish said, “but gullible is not one of them. The only friend a bank has is the money in its vault. And the only reason you are here is because you are afraid I will switch from your bank to that other one.” Franks went to speak but Cavendish hushed him. “We’ll chew the fat directly. Right now I must greet my other guests.”

“You remember me, then?” Melanie said.

“I would have to be six feet under to forget a fine filly like you, girl.” Cavendish switched his attention to Clay. “Is this one with you or is he looking for work? I already have one dandy working for me”—he pointed at Teckler—“and I don’t need another.”