Free Quincannon by Bill Pronzini Page B

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