“Not one thin dime,” DeQuille assured Joe. “Just you and your friend come back to my desk and tell me the story and I'll do my best to get it into print.”
Since it cost nothing, Joe felt that this was a stroke of good fortune. With Ellen at his side, he told the newspaperman his story about falling in love with Fiona on a wagon train that he'd led west some years ago, and then how he'd lost her, but hoped to find her in the next day or two right here on the Comstock Lode.
“And you fathered this child out of wedlock?” DeQuille said in a quiet voice, not looking directly at Joe.
“I . . . yes, sir.”
“Hmmm,” DeQuille said, laying his ink pen down for a moment and folding his long, slender fingers together. “We'll have to be a bit careful about the child part. We don't want to embarrass Miss McCarthy. Also, you have to be prepared for the idea that she might have remarried. So as you can well understand, Mr. Moss, this is a
delicate
issue.”
“All right,” Joe said, “leave out the kid.”
“I think that would be my preference,” DeQuille told him as he finished asking a few more questions about Joe and Fiona. “Now,” he said, “I think I have enough to compose the story. All our readers enjoy a good love story and that is what you have here, Mr. Moss.”
“Joe. Just call me Joe.”
“Very well,” DeQuille agreed. “Now, Miss Johnson, I have to say that your story also interests me greatly. Where, exactly, did you come from and why did you leave your husband?”
DeQuille was very handsome in an elegant and erudite way. Not at all like a farmer or workingman. He had long, black hair slicked straight back over his skull and perfectly parted down the middle, along with large brown eyes. His hands were the most delicate that Joe Moss had ever seen on a man, and yet there was strength and great intelligence in his person, Joe was sure of it.
Ellen felt that, too. She realized at once that she was dealing with a man who had unusual charm and a gift for extracting the most personal and private information to write about. And because of that, she was on her guard.
“Mr. DeQuille,” she said, “I am not here in your newspaper office to find anyone, nor do I want someone in my past to find me.”
“How mysterious,” DeQuille said with a wide grin. “It makes me even more determined to hear your story.”
“I'm afraid that it is far too personal,” Ellen told him firmly.
“Where will you both be staying?”
“We have no idea. Can you recommend lodging?”
DeQuille steepled his long fingers and thought a moment “I do know someone who runs a boardinghouse for ladies. It's up on B Street and I'll write you a note of introduction, if you wish.”
“That would be extremely kind,” Ellen said, visibly relieved. “And what about Joe?”
“What about Joe?” DeQuille asked, turning to him. “You can find boardinghouses all over town. There are a few hotels as well, some good and some little more than shacks. So it all depends on what you can afford.”
“I have money,” Joe told him. “I don't need anything fancy, but I won't sleep among thieves and drunks.”
“Then you might want to board where I do,” DeQuille said. “There is a small room that has just been vacated.”
“Been what?”
“It is available for occupancy,” DeQuille explained.
“How much?”
“Two dollars a day. Ten dollars a week. Thirty-five dollars a month.”
“Holy cow!” Joe swore. “That's terrible high.”
“Not for up here, Mr. Moss. I promise you it is a good bargain and it comes with hot water for a bath as well as a good breakfast. Dinner and supper are not included, however.”
“I dunno,” Joe hesitated. “Maybe I'll see if I can sleep in a stable by my horses and earn my keep by pitchin' hay and cleaning stalls.”
“I'm afraid that you won't have any success at that,” DeQuille explained. “Those kinds of jobs have a line of hungry and unemployed men waiting to fill them. Anyway, if you find your Fiona, perhaps she has accommodations more to your liking.”
Joe blushed a little. “Yeah. I hope so.”
Ellen said, “Joe, why don't you take the room for at least tonight? Tomorrow we'll know a lot more. But tonight we both could use a good, safe room and a bath.”
“All right,” Joe agreed. “But as soon as I find a place for our horses I'm going to go looking for her, and I won't stop until she's found.”
“Good luck,” DeQuille said, not sounding hopeful.
Â
Once they were back outside the
Territorial Enterprise,
Joe took the three horses and went to find them a stable, while Ellen took off for the boardinghouse that Mr. DeQuille had recommended and had also graciously given her a note of introduction for.
Joe rode his Palouse horse and led Ellen's horses up the street and, not finding a stable, he began to search on higher and lower streets until he found a stable that looked well run. However, when he asked about the price, he was nearly dumbfounded to learn that it was going to cost him twenty-one dollars a week for the three animals, more if he wanted them grained.
“I swear that's higher'n a camel's back!”
“That may be so,” the liveryman agreed with a smile, “but all the hay and grain have to be brought clear over from the Carson Valley. The freight alone cost me a fortune. Now, if you want to sell those horses, you could save yourself a lot of money.”
“No, thanks,” Joe said. “A man without a horse is only half a man.”
The livery owner laughed. “My sentiments exactly! Now, I expect payment in advance.”
Joe paid the man and departed the stable with his money, saddlebags, and weapons. His heart began to race as he headed back down to C Street just hoping that he would bump into Fiona among the crowds. Yet, he knew in his heart that he would not because it quickly became apparent that the only women on the street were whores trying to entice men into cheap hotel rooms and back-alley cribs.
Joe turned them all down, although he sure was yearning for the soft, enticing flesh of a woman. But Fiona was real close now. He could almost feel her presence, and he'd be damned if he'd soil his body and soul just before seeing her again. So he smiled at the aggressive whores and turned his back on them as he walked the sidewalks packed with humanity.
Then, right out of the blue . . . just like a nightmare . . . he collided with the drunken wreckage and dissipation of Brendan McCarthy.
18
J
OE MOSS AND Brendan McCarthy were about the same height, but that was where their similarities ended. Now, standing face-to-face with the man that he hated as much as any before in his life, Joe found himself stunned and completely at a loss for words.
“You,” Brendan muttered, his bloodshot eyes dilating with abhorrence. “You!”
And to Joe's great surprise, Fiona's drunken, worthless father lunged forward and grabbed Joe by the throat screaming, “I'll kill you!”
Joe felt the man's thumbs digging into his neck and spine. Despite his advancing age and poor health, Brendan was still amazingly powerful. Joe threw his arms up, and it was a struggle to break the old man's death grip. They tripped, fell off the sidewalk into the street, and Brendan landed on top of Joe.
For an instant, Joe's right hand shot down to his bowie knife and grabbed its handle. Had he not been sober and in full control of his senses, Joe would have drawn the knife and plunged it deep under Brendan McCarthy's rib cage.
He would have killed this old bastard in the blink of an eye . . . but now he could not because this man was still Fiona's beloved father.
So instead of knifing the drunken Irishman, Joe drew his six-gun and slammed it up against the side of Brendan's thick skull. It took three powerful blows before Brendan's eyes crossed and he toppled over unconscious.
“Did you
kill
that old Irish sot?” another drunk asked, lurching off the sidewalk to stand over Joe and Brendan. “I hope you killed him because he ain't worth the air that he breathes. And he's mean as a rattlesnake and about as trustworthy as a rabid skunk.”
Joe staggered to his feet, using a horse-watering trough to support himself. His neck felt as if it had been snapped and his head was spinning. Batting the drunk aside with his gun, he plunged his head into the water trough and held it underwater for a full minute before he dragged himself erect and shook the water off his head.
“Shoot him!” the drunk urged. “Shoot that ornery bastard while he's down and he'll never know what hit him. Be a real mercy to put him out of his misery and send him to the Promised Land . . . although he'll probably go straight to Hell instead.”
Joe holstered his gun and used his sleeve to wipe his eyes. Vision restored and his head slowing down, he glared at the bloodthirsty man. “Do you know this man well?”
“Sure! Every drunk on C Street knows Brendan McCarthy to be nothing more than a low-down, lyin' sonofabitch.”
“It's his daughter that I'm lookin' for today.”
“She's gone. That's why McCarthy is always drunk.”
Joe looked down at the unconscious Irishman, then back at the one who'd been urging him to shoot Brendan. “Mc-Carthy was always about half-drunk.”
“Well, mister, he's now half-drunk always.” The miner cackled, pleased with his turn of words.
Joe shook his head. “Where's his daughter?”
The man gave Joe a loose and lopsided grin. “She may be dead.”
Joe's heart nearly stopped. He jumped forward and grabbed the man by his shirtfront, growling, “Mister, if you're tryin' to be amusin', you're headin' in the wrong direction. Now tell me true where Fiona McCarthy is or I'll bust your head wide open and take your damned scalp!”
To make sure that the miner understood the seriousness of the situation, Joe drew his fearsome-looking tomahawk and raised it high.
“Oh, Sweet Jesus, don't kill me!”
“Where is Fiona McCarthy, damn you?” Joe roared.
“That ain't his daughter's name anymore, mister!”
Joe lowered his tomahawk, remembering that Fiona had been forced by her father to marry a man in California for his gold rush claim. “Then what
is
her name?”
“Brendan's daughter, if that's who you're huntin', goes by the name of Mrs. Fiona Moss.”
“Huh?” Joe dropped the tomahawk. “What are you talkin' about?
My
last name is Moss.”
The drunk tried to turn and run, but Joe was on him like a bird on a fat grub. He grabbed the miner and spun him around. Then, inspired by the effect that a good dunking had had on his own mental clarity, Joe shoved the drunk's head into the water trough and held it under counting to twenty-five.
“You're gonna drown him,” a man said, looking very worried. “If you drown him, then you'll hang, mister.”
“I ain't gonna drown him,” Joe answered, finally letting the drunk up for air. “I'm just putting the fear of God upon him.”
Joe threw the miner down in the dirt beside Brendan, and then he knelt between the two men. When the drunk stopped choking and heaving, Joe slapped him a couple of times hard and said, “Now where is his daughter?”
“I don't know!” the Comstock miner cried. “Honest, I don't! Old Brendan probably don't know, either! Only thing we know is that she disappeared more than a month ago.”
Joe sagged with disappointment.
“Why don't you let me go, mister? I didn't do anything to you. He probably knows where she's hiding!”
Joe sat up and shook his head, as if that simple act could sort out all the clutter and make things sensible. But it didn't do anything. “All right,” he said, “you go. I'll get my answers from Fiona's old man.”
Joe grabbed Brendan's ankles and dragged the besotted Irishman out of the street before some freight wagon came along and cut him to pieces. He had attracted considerable attention from the mostly drunken miners who had little to do but look forward to their next hellish shift. But they had seen Joe raise that tomahawk, and not a one of them was of a mind to interfere.
When Joe got Brendan in between two buildings, he shook Fiona's father until the man finally regained consciousness. When he saw Joe, he tried to knock his head off, but Joe got on top of the Irishman and pinned his arms. Glaring down at Brendan, he shouted, “McCarthy, what the hell is the matter with you! Have you gone completely off your rocker from drinkin'?”
Brendan struggled some more, but he was tiring and finally stopped. “Get off me, Moss.”
“If I do, are you goin' to go crazy again?” Joe really wanted to impress the old man, so he drew his knife. “If you are, then I might as well cut your worthless throat and be done with it. Something I should have done before I left that wagon train.”
Brendan's eyes were red and watery. He had a beard that was about a week old and he stank worse than a pig. “Go ahead,” the man challenged. “Cut my throat. It'd be a blessing to me and I'd go to hell knowin' you'd hang.” Brendan began to half-laugh and half-cry. “I wouldn't take bets which one of us would burn the longer in hell!”
Joe could see that McCarthy was too far gone to be a threat and that the man really didn't care whether he lived or died. “Where is Fiona?” he asked. “I don't care about you. Only thing I care about is Fiona and my child.”
“You mean your
bastard
daughter!”
Something snapped in Joe's mind and he clenched his left hand and brought it down into McCarthy's ruined and hateful face as if it were a sledgehammer. Brendan grunted and lost consciousness. His mouth hung open, and Joe could see that he had knocked out the old man's last remaining front teeth.