Free Quincannon by Bill Pronzini Page A

the mill foreman, he was inspecting one of the eccentrics that raised the stamps, shut down now and locked into place. Rather than interrupt them, Quincannon stayed where he was near the entrance and watched the machinery and the millhands at their work.
    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