West of Washoe by Tim Champlin Page B

man the least bit tipsy. Nor did he smoke, or gamble—except in business. What about sex? Again, no one knew. Fossett leaned forward, dropping his eyes when Tuttlelooked up and caught him staring. A time or two Fossett had subtly tried to pry into the man’s past, but the mine owner had made some joking comment and diverted the conversation to another topic. Fossett didn’t trust a man who had no faults. In spite of his sunny, sociable manner, Tuttle gave the impression he was not presenting the real man—he was always on stage. The man had a dark side; Fossett was sure of it.
    Tuttle pulled a massive gold watch from his fancy vest and popped open the case with one hand. “Where the hell is Holladay? Always late. He evidently thinks I have nothing better to do than wait around all day for him to show up.” He didn’t mention wasting Fossett’s valuable time as well.
    He snapped the case shut, returned the watch to his vest pocket, and began pacing up and down, once going to the front window and pulling aside the lace curtain to peer out.
    Fossett sipped the sherry to ease the pain in his arm, purposely avoiding dosing himself with laudanum in front of this priggish man. The silence was broken by hoof beats thudding on the packed street.
    “About time,” Tuttle said.
    Fossett saw the big man step down from an ornate coach and stride briskly up the front walk. A sharp rap. The door was thrust open. Ben Holladay blew into the room like a fresh spring breeze.
    “Howdy, gents,” he said, removing his hat and flinging it accurately at the hall tree.
    “What’re you drinking, Ben?” Tuttle asked, the irritated look gone from his face. He always treated one of the richest, most influential men in the country with deference.
    “Brandy.” The big man rubbed his hands together.
    “Hello, Frank.” He acknowledged Fossett’s presence with a curt nod. “A fine May day!” he enthused, accepting the brandy from his host. He sipped his drink with obvious satisfaction and smoothed his heavy, brown beard and mustache. “Let’s get down to business,” he said. “I have a meeting with my Virginia City agent this afternoon.”
    Tuttle sank down on the couch while Holladay continued to stand in the middle of the room, an imposing six feet two inches. A ruby ring glowed on the hand that held his glass. His famous tiger-claw watch fob showed white against the dark blue vest.
    “First of all, I hear you got yourself shot while torching The Territorial Enterprise office,” Holladay said, frowning.
    “I guess word got out about that,” Fossett said, his face growing warm.
    “A public fight with some two-bit newspaper editor is not what we want,” Holladay continued.
    “The editorials…”
    “I don’t care how it happened!” the big man cut him off sharply. “I know as much about it as I need to know. If you’re going to do us some good and share in the profits, you will have to keep your head down. We don’t want the whole world to know what we’re about. You will continue to praise the assets of the Blue Hole Mine and of the Overland Mail and Stage Company in The Gold Hill Clarion. ”
    Fossett nodded his understanding, noting that Holladay’s eyes were set too closely together in his broad face, giving the impression of a very penetrating gaze. Possibly a slight defect from birth that wasn’t correctable with spectacles.
    The stage line owner turned to Tuttle. “I see the stockof the Blue Hole is rising. That’s good. What’re you really taking out of there?”
    “Very poor-grade ore. My men did hit one good ledge at the sixth level, two hundred and forty feet down. But it pinched out quickly. I slipped into one of the older drifts and salted the walls with a couple shotgun blasts of gold dust.”
    Holladay nodded, sipping his drink.
    “The miners are already wondering how they missed it, the flecks are so obvious.”
    “Forget the miners. They have no proof of anything.”
    “I know. But their union is