Longarm and the Dime Novelist (9 page)

The Virginia & Truckee Railroad had been constructed to haul heavy loads of ore and supplies between Virginia City, Gold Hill, and Carson City, but it also relied on a steady stream of passengers. It pulled out of the territorial capital and chugged straight east through a sea of sagebrush and rock just north of the Carson River for several miles. Soon, it turned northeast and began to struggle up into the desolate and largely barren mountains dotted with a few scrubby piñon and juniper pines.

“Gawd, this is ugly country!” Delia said as the train moved slowly but steadily higher. “Not a pine tree, river, or stream in sight.”

“I told you how hard it must have been for the Forty-Niners who came off the forested western slopes of the Sierra Nevada mountains. But miners will go wherever the ore is to be found. For them, there is always the dream of striking it rich.”

“But you said all the gold was found in big pockets deep under Sun Mountain.”

“That's almost true. However, small nuggets of gold were found in dry gullies and streambeds that only fill with water after the torrential spring and summer rains.”

“Look at all the mines that were abandoned.”

Everywhere a person looked were small piles of tailings where miners working only with picks and shovels and maybe a little dynamite had struggled to burrow into the rocky slopes. Sadly, very few of those tunnels had produced so much as an ounce of gold and it was clear that almost all the scrubby pines had been chopped down by early miners and used either as firewood during the bitterly cold winters or for bracing up the ceilings of the shafts and tunnels.

“What is this town called?”

“Silver City, and then we'll pass up this canyon through Gold Hill before we climb over a ridge and arrive in Virginia City.”

“So many businesses shuttered,” Delia said, taking notes. “And all those pitiful and falling down shacks! It looks as if hundreds of people once lived here.”

“Thousands,” Longarm corrected. “I'd guess there are less than five hundred people trying to eke out a living up here now.”

“Is Virginia City this deserted?”

“It's been a few years since I've visited the ‘Queen of the Comstock Lode' as she was known around the world. But I expect there are hundreds of little shacks and businesses that are deserted. You see, without the mines producing, no one would live up here on this barren mountain. The water, what little there is to be found locally, tastes awful and everything from hay to beer has to be hauled either by mule and wagons or this train and that makes it expensive. When the mines were producing, money wasn't a huge problem, but now . . .”

“Now this is all just a deserted dream,” Delia said. “Say, I like
deserted dream
! It could even be a title for one of my future novels.”

“I guess,” Longarm said, closing his eyes and tipping his hat over his forehead. “I'm going to get a quick nap before we arrive in Virginia City.”

Her hand brushed his thigh. “What's the matter, did I work you too hard last night at the Ormsby Hotel?”

“I'm not complaining but sleep has been a bit hard to come by lately.”

“We can sleep in our graves forever,” Delia said.

 • • • 

The V&T Railroad, as it was called by locals as well as by historians, rolled into the train station near sundown and about thirty passengers unloaded. There were a half-dozen buggies waiting to deliver the new visitors up the hill to the main part of town along C Street.

“I'd rather walk up that hill,” Delia declared, “we've been sitting all day and I could use the exercise.”

Longarm shrugged because she was probably right. The climb was steep and given the altitude up on Sun Mountain, he knew they'd quickly be out of breath. A few of the passengers, mostly older and well dressed, elected to pay for a ride up the mountainside, but the miners and workmen along with most others chose to save the fare and walk.

They stayed that night at the Gold Strike Hotel and the next morning they set out to find Maxwell Pennington.

“Where is the sheriff's office?”

“Just down the street a few doors, but he ain't there,” a man with a bushy beard, bloodshot eyes, and a dirty flannel shirt replied.

“Where is he?”

“Graveyard. He joined a few others who wore badges here and he was a good man. Can't recall his name, but he had red hair and was cross-eyed. He got gunned down by a gambler named . . . oh, well, it doesn't matter. They hanged the gambler on a hoisting works and instead of burying the bastard, they just tossed his body down an abandoned mine shaft that dropped about eight hundred feet.”

“Then who is the law these days?” Longarm asked.

“Ain't any,” the man said, picking his nose. “It's every man, woman, and child for themselves anymore.”

“What about a newspaper?”

“Oh, we still got one. Old Dan DeQuille is still the editor of the
Territorial Enterprise
. He's gettin' up there in years and used to be a friend of a fella that got pretty famous and now calls himself Mark Twain. You ever hear of him?”

“Sure,” Delia said before Longarm could answer. “Who hasn't read
Tom Sawyer
or
Huckleberry Finn
?”

“I ain't,” the man confessed. “When Twain worked for the
Territorial Enterprise
he was just a young reporter named Sam Clemens. I guess that handle wasn't good enough for a fella that got famous.”

“I guess not,” Longarm agreed. “So is editor DeQuille still putting out a paper these days?”

“Oh, sure. He doesn't sell many anymore, but he has a lot of friends in this town. Most likely you'll find him at his desk trying to think up something to write about.”

“Thanks for your time, mister,” Longarm said.

“Time is all most of us have anymore and mine is runnin' out. Tell Dan I sent you along.”

“Will do.”

Longarm and Delia had no trouble finding Dan DeQuille and they were shocked by the shabby office and the cadaverous man's frayed clothing. DeQuille was tall with sad eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard. He greeted them cordially and then motioned for them to sit down and rest their feet.

“It's an honor to meet you,” Delia gushed. “It must have been quite an experience working with Mark Twain back in Virginia City's heyday.”

“It was, but I taught him how to be a good reporter,” DeQuille told them. “Me and Sam got along just fine and had a lot of drinks and laughs. We'd try to outdo each other writing up big lies that the locals would fall for. We came up with some real whoppers.”

“I'll just bet you did,” Delia said.

“Sam got restless here and traveled on to California, of course, and wrote
The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County
and after that
Tom Sawyer
. He's immensely talented and when I finish my big epic called
The Big Bonanza
, which will be the definitive work on the Comstock Lode, Sam has promised to help me find a publisher. Maybe then I'll retire and move to San Diego or some other place on the coast where the weather is mild and easier on an old reporter and editor's bones.”

“I'm a pretty successful dime novelist,” Delia said, giving DeQuille her best smile.

“A dime novelist?”

“That's right! I write under the pen name of Dakota Walker. Maybe you've read a few of my books.”

DeQuille shook his head. “Can't say that I have. But I've seen some dime novels and I think they are complete and unimaginative drivel.”

Delia's smile melted. “Oh.”

“But if you write as pretty as you look, I'm sure that your dime novels are much better than most.”

They all realized that DeQuille's last statement was a poor attempt to make Delia feel better about her writing and for a moment, no one had anything to say. Finally, Longarm broke the silence. “Mr. DeQuille.”

“Dan. Just call me Dan like everyone else up here does.”

“Okay. Dan. We are up here to find a Mr. Maxwell Pennington. Can you help us?”

“Max left Virginia City about five days ago. He took the stagecoach down to Reno and I think I heard that he was headed for his ranch out at Fallon. He spends more and more time there.”

“Where is Fallon?” Longarm asked.

“Oh,” DeQuille said with a wave of his hand, “it's about seventy or eighty miles east of Reno. I've never been out that way, and from what I've heard, I wouldn't find it appealing.”

“And why would he go to Fallon?”

“His father owned a lot of land out there and ran quite a few cattle. But Mr. Pennington died not too long ago and the ranch went to Max. I heard that he inherited about six thousand acres of sage and sand and a good herd of cattle. He supplies beef to some army posts out that way. If he's got water and grass, Max will do a lot better ranching than he did here at the mine the last five or six years.”

“Did you ever see him with a blond-haired girl?”

“Sure.”

“You did!” Delia whipped out her notepad and pencil. “Could you describe her?”

“Of course,” DeQuille said, “but why don't you just go over and see Annie at the Bucket of Blood Saloon where she works?”

The pencil in Delia's hand stopped writing. “You say her name is Annie and she's a saloon girl?”

DeQuille blushed. “Among other things, yes.”

Longarm cleared his throat. “I don't think we need to see Annie. Mr. DeQuille, I'm sure you are aware of the ambush of Marshal John Pierce and his wife, Agnes, along with the disappearance of their daughter.”

“Of course I am. I even wrote about it in my newspaper and I wasn't above hinting that maybe the girl was still alive although I'm pretty sure that isn't the case.”

“Why would you say that?” Delia asked.

“Because, if she is as pretty as described, she'd stand out in this country and someone would have seen and helped her by now. I hate to say this, but she has to be either dead or maybe she was taken down to Mexico.”

“That's also my thinking,” Longarm added. “Can you tell me about Maxwell Pennington?”

“I could, but first I need to know what business all of this has to do with you and this lady.”

Longarm showed DeQuille his badge. “Marshal John Pierce was a fine lawman and his wife a good woman. They didn't deserve to be ambushed and killed. I've been sent from Denver to see if I can get to the bottom of their murders and even to help find their missing daughter.”

“I see.” DeQuille found his own notepad and pencil. “You don't mind if I take a few notes of my own, do you?”

“I'd rather you didn't until I have a bit more time to investigate.”

DeQuille sighed and laid down his pencil. “If I can't take notes, then neither can you, Miss Walker.”

“Actually, my real name is Delia Wilson. Dakota Walker is just my pen name.”

“Maybe I'd have become famous if I'd have used a pen name like you and Sam,” DeQuille mused somewhat ruefully. “Too late now, I suppose.”

“Dan,” Longarm said, trying to get back to the subject of Maxwell Pennington. “Will you tell me about the young man?”

“He's handsome as anything,” DeQuille said. “He's not as tall as you or I, but he's at least six feet with wavy blond hair and blue eyes. The women have always chased Max.”

“How long has he lived up here and worked his mine?”

DeQuille thought a moment. “I'd say Max arrived about ten years ago and took the mine over from his father. Back then, it was still producing quite a lot of gold and making Max, his father, and the stockholders wheelbarrows full of money.”

“So when did the gold start to run out?”

“About the same time that the Ophir and the other big mines started to go bust . . . seven or eight years ago. Mr. Pennington and Max started fighting as the strain of losing money set in. I've seen it over and over and finally, the father left the Comstock and went out and bought the cattle ranch near Fallon. He would return over the years make sure that Max was still taking out whatever profits could be taken from their mine. But he never stayed more than a day or two and he'd be headed back to Fallon.”

“When was the last time you saw the father?” Delia asked.

“Shortly before he went missing and that would be a couple of months ago.”

“He went missing?” Longarm asked.

“Yes. He left here and disappeared like smoke.”

“Did you actually see him leave?” Delia asked.

“As a matter of fact I did. He and I got along pretty well and we'd had breakfast that morning. I saw him to the stage and we waved good-bye. He was never seen again.”

Longarm scowled. “So the father dies and the son inherits not only the mine but the cattle ranch.”

“Sure. Max was an only child.” DeQuille ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair. “What has Max Pennington got to do with anything?”

Longarm steepled his fingers. “If I tell you, then you have to keep this quiet until I finish my investigation. Miss Emily Pierce may yet be alive and I'm sure you don't want to jeopardize her chances.”

“What chances?”

“I don't know,” Longarm confessed. “Listen, Dan, I talked to a woman in Reno who seems honest and reputable. She swears that Maxwell Pennington was seeing Emily Pierce on the sly.”

“But the Pierce girl was only sixteen and the daughter of highly respected parents.”

“That doesn't matter,” Delia interrupted. “Emily Pierce may have fallen in love or been flirting with Pennington. It could have gotten serious.”

“Are you actually suggesting that Max might have had something to do with the ambush and abduction?”

“I don't know,” Longarm answered. “But the woman that Delia and I both interviewed in Reno said Maxwell Pennington was involved with Emily Pierce and she seemed very credible. Yesterday, we were in Carson City checking out a few details of her story and they were accurate.”