Free West of Washoe by Tim Champlin

rumors had spread among the miners, he was certain the other owners knew.
    Mine owners, like most men of great riches who lived in proximity to the common source of their wealth, formed an elite club and traveled mostly within their own social circle. A few owners and major stockholders lived in San Francisco and other cities. But the majority had vaulted from poverty to unimagined riches. They didn’t take their wealth for granted, and lived nearby to oversee day-to-day operations. Tearing precious metals from the earth was a chancy business at best, dependent as much on luck as skill. These men would deal with Tuttle in their own way. The owners might ignore him until he sold his nearly worthless mine. Then he’d no longer be a member of their inner circle. Yet one cheat in the bunch could tarnish the reputation of all by causing a wave of suspicion among outside investors that might be financially damaging.The other owners would have to deal with Tuttle more directly.
    Ross sighed and gave up trying to put himself into the minds of these wealthy giants of the Comstock. Somehow he’d have at least to see this man so he’d later know him on sight. But first he had to figure out how to get into the mine. If Sturm had told the truth about the mine being played out, no foreman or owner would invite a mine inspector down the shaft to have a look around.
    He stood up and stretched, then put away his pen and ink bottle. Shuffling a sheaf of papers together, he stashed them in a leather grip under the bed. He took his vest from the back of the chair and slid his arms into it, thinking Avery Tuttle had made a basic mistake that could well prove his undoing. He’d mistreated his employees. Dictators throughout history had abused the peasants at their own peril.
    A walk to the newspaper office might clear his thinking. He’d nearly forgotten his half-jesting promise to watch Scrivener’s back in exchange for the editor’s introduction to some of the mines. That was before the torching of the Enterprise office. Everything between Scrivener and Fossett was now out in the open. Short of leaving town, Martin Scrivener had no choice but to take his chances. If a rival editor, or anyone else, wanted to kill him, they’d have opportunities.
    Buttoning his vest, Ross realized he still didn’t have a coat. The spring mountain chill would be in the air again tonight. He’d been on his way to buy one when the sight of Jacob Sturm had sidetracked him. No matter. Plenty of stores were open at all hours. He closed and locked the door to his room, making sure he’d strapped on his Navy Colt, fully loaded and capped. He thought he’d seen some wild camps and boom townsduring the California gold rush, but this place beat any he’d ever experienced. From what he could estimate, men outnumbered women here at least seven to one, and the residents ignored all laws of God and man. Not only did they ignore the laws, they seemed to take delight in ferreting out any they’d overlooked and breaking them twice over—fighting, robbing, cheating, killing, boozing, whoring, gambling. Moral principle was no curb to bad behavior; physical stamina was.
    The sun was setting over the nearby mountains as he walked along the street. Yellow lamplight spilled out of open doorways and windows. C Street was ablaze for the hours of darkness.
    Ross wondered if he should confide in Scrivener and Clemens. They had enough on their minds already. Scrivener could be trusted, but Clemens, on the other hand—well, he wasn’t so sure. The reporter was young and impetuous. Yet he’d been a commercial steamboat pilot, which denoted a man of intelligence and responsibility. Most of all, the two newsmen knew Virginia City and the Comstock much better than he did.
    Ross stopped. He planned to share what he knew, keeping his source to himself, as he’d promised. Perhaps the three of them should devise a plan of attack to ruin the schemes of Tuttle, Fossett, and Holladay.