Free West of Washoe by Tim Champlin Page B

a life-size painting of a reclining nude. As Ross studied it, he wondered if the artist had worked from a live model. Nothing had been left to the imagination—the flesh tones were soft and alluring, the dark hair framed the face, the full lips pouted, eyes held the viewer with a disconcerting gaze. The woman in the picture was languidly trailing a diaphanous veil across her nether regions, revealing more than she concealed. With a start, Ross realized the image bore a strong resemblance to the woman who’d ridden in the coach with him across the mountains. He could feel himself nearly blushing, as if she were boldly staring down at him. A local Jezebel? He caught the bartender’s eye and jabbed a finger at the painting. “Who’s the gal?”
    “Ain’t she sumpin’? Calls herself Angeline Champeaux. Rumor says she’s from New Orleans. Wish she worked here, but they got her hog-tied at the Blind Mule down the street. We can’t afford her.”
    “Oh?”
    “They pay her three times the usual wage to deal blackjack and generally keep the customers happy. But where she makes her real money is on the side with select clientele. She’s mighty particular, I hear. Not snooty, but just quality stuff and knows it. Priced outta my range, I can tell ya that.” The bartender cocked his head back and took a long look—“Mighty fine.”—then turned to go back to work.
    Ross made a mental note to visit the Blind Mule. He wanted to see if this was the woman who’d shared his coach on that wild ride across the Sierras. Other than curiosity, he had no reason for doing so.
    He tore his eyes from the painting, turned to face the room, and leaned his back against the bar. “Something I want to discuss with you,” he said.
    Scrivener picked up his gin and also turned around, hooking a boot heel on the brass rail behind him.
    Before Ross could say a word, Scrivener directed his attention to someone at a nearby table. “Calvin Tibbs,” he said under his breath.
    “Who?”
    “The drunk you spilled coffee on the other day. The one who tried to knife you.”
    Ross looked. The man sat alone, reading a copy of The Gold Hill Clarion. He was shaved and appeared reasonably sober, although a bottle of Old Noble Treble Crown Whiskey rested near at hand. A white bandage showed under the edge of his hat.
    Tibbs glanced up and caught Scrivener staring at him.
    “They run you out of Barnum’s?” the editor asked.
    “You busted my head when I wasn’t looking, you son-of-a-bitch,” Tibbs replied. “A man who’d do that is probably a back-shooter, too.” He raised the newspaper and made as if to resume reading.
    “What do you find to read that’s instructive in that rag?” Scrivener asked, an edge to his voice.
    “Oh, I read the Clarion to get the news. I use the Enterprise to wipe my ass.”
    “Then keep right on, my learned friend,” Scrivener replied, “and in short order your ass will know more than your head ever will.”
    Ross was in the act of swallowing, and spewed a mouthful of beer onto the floor. Laughing, he wiped his mouth and nose with his shirt sleeve. “Damn, Martin, you been hanging around Sam Clemens too long,” hesaid under his breath, looking to see if Tibbs was reaching for a gun. Men were killed in this town every day for lesser insults than that.
    Scrivener was evidently thinking the same. “He’s got a Colt under his coat, but he’s too shaky to use it,” he said.
    Tibbs’s face reddened, but he appeared not to hear as he kept his eyes on the paper.
    “Let’s go find a table so we can talk,” the editor said. “I’ve gained nothing by besting a fool in a battle of wits. He was unarmed.”
    The two men sought a small table in an out-of-the-way corner.
    “I don’t want to add to your burdens, but, in a way, this concerns you,” Ross began. He laid out the story he’d heard that afternoon from the two miners. “Since you and Frank Fossett at the Clarion are at each other’s throats, I