Turned out most of my jabs hit a sore spot. Fossett didn’t deny what I’d written. Guess he figured I had some kind of proof to back up what I said. He blew up and threatened Martin, thinking he was the one who’d exposed him.”
“Why didn’t he go after you?”
“My pieces didn’t have a byline.”
“I see.”
“I started this while Martin was out of town for a week. Thought it might boost circulation.” He shook his head. “It did more than that. Martin came back and heard all the ruckus. When he realized Fossett really was the whited sepulcher I’d made him out to be, Martin backed me with some editorials of his own. So, now Fossett’s after him. But I can’t stand by and let that happen. Martin Scrivener’s too good a man to finish something I started.”
“What can you do about it?”
Clemens didn’t answer while the waiter set their food on the table.
“As you know, Fossett or one of his men tried to burn down the Enterprise, ” Clemens continued. “I have to stop him before he does something even more desperate. The only thing I can think to do is own up to writing those pieces, and challenge him to a duel.”
“Isn’t there a law against dueling in this territory?”
“Yep. The law would have to clamp down on any crime as public as that. We’d both be arrested and jailed.”
“You wouldn’t have to advertise the time and place,” Ross said.
“Quit trying to get me killed,” Clemens said. “You don’t think I actually want to fight a duel with deadlyweapons, do you? I’d have to leak it to the press or put out a few broadsides with Fossett’s name on them. Weak as they are, the police will have to be given a chance to prevent it.” He spooned up a bite of pork and beans. “I may carry this six-shot Navy Colt, but if I were to fire it at the bartender over there, I’d just as likely fetch the bouncer by the door.”
“Not a marksman, then?”
Clemens shook his head. “Especially when my nerves are playing hobs with my gun hand.”
Ross wiped up some juice with a crust of bread and chewed thoughtfully.
“You don’t want to go to jail, either. Why don’t you have Fossett arrested for various and sundry crimes?”
“I have no proof.”
“You’re in a bind.”
“To take Fossett’s mind off Scrivener, I’ll own up to the accusations, challenge him to a duel, and then make myself scarce for a while until things settle down.”
“That won’t do much for your reputation.”
“As the Bible says…‘better a live mouse than a dead lion’…or something to that effect.”
“I wouldn’t be in your shoes for a controlling interest in the Comstock.”
Chapter Six
After lunch they parted, Clemens heading for the newspaper office and Ross starting up the street to find a men’s clothing store, or a likely-looking mercantile to replace the coat he’d ruined. A half block ahead, seated on the edge of the boardwalk and leaning against a post, was a drunk—or a beggar. Ross slowed his pace for a look. Although beggars were few in this town, drunks were as common as hoof prints. What differed about this one was the hand-lettered sign he held propped in his lap. It read:
AVERY TUTTLE,
Owner of the Blue Hole Mine
A Robber, Liar, Murderer
Takes silver for the lives of miners
Most pedestrians walked around the man’s legs sprawled out in the sidewalk. Others gave him only a curious glance as they passed. One or two stopped to read the sign as Ross came up. The man was emaciated, obviously drunk or sick, with a week’s worth of whiskers, his eyes wearing a watery, glazed look that focused on nothing. As Ross watched, the man pulled a bottle from behind the sign and took a swig. From a few feet away, the square-faced bottle and label looked like some kind of patent medicine.
Ross was curious. If there was something about the Blue Hole Mine he should know, he meant to find outwhat it was. He hunkered down. “Hey mister, what’s this about Avery Tuttle and his
“Why didn’t he go after you?”
“My pieces didn’t have a byline.”
“I see.”
“I started this while Martin was out of town for a week. Thought it might boost circulation.” He shook his head. “It did more than that. Martin came back and heard all the ruckus. When he realized Fossett really was the whited sepulcher I’d made him out to be, Martin backed me with some editorials of his own. So, now Fossett’s after him. But I can’t stand by and let that happen. Martin Scrivener’s too good a man to finish something I started.”
“What can you do about it?”
Clemens didn’t answer while the waiter set their food on the table.
“As you know, Fossett or one of his men tried to burn down the Enterprise, ” Clemens continued. “I have to stop him before he does something even more desperate. The only thing I can think to do is own up to writing those pieces, and challenge him to a duel.”
“Isn’t there a law against dueling in this territory?”
“Yep. The law would have to clamp down on any crime as public as that. We’d both be arrested and jailed.”
“You wouldn’t have to advertise the time and place,” Ross said.
“Quit trying to get me killed,” Clemens said. “You don’t think I actually want to fight a duel with deadlyweapons, do you? I’d have to leak it to the press or put out a few broadsides with Fossett’s name on them. Weak as they are, the police will have to be given a chance to prevent it.” He spooned up a bite of pork and beans. “I may carry this six-shot Navy Colt, but if I were to fire it at the bartender over there, I’d just as likely fetch the bouncer by the door.”
“Not a marksman, then?”
Clemens shook his head. “Especially when my nerves are playing hobs with my gun hand.”
Ross wiped up some juice with a crust of bread and chewed thoughtfully.
“You don’t want to go to jail, either. Why don’t you have Fossett arrested for various and sundry crimes?”
“I have no proof.”
“You’re in a bind.”
“To take Fossett’s mind off Scrivener, I’ll own up to the accusations, challenge him to a duel, and then make myself scarce for a while until things settle down.”
“That won’t do much for your reputation.”
“As the Bible says…‘better a live mouse than a dead lion’…or something to that effect.”
“I wouldn’t be in your shoes for a controlling interest in the Comstock.”
Chapter Six
After lunch they parted, Clemens heading for the newspaper office and Ross starting up the street to find a men’s clothing store, or a likely-looking mercantile to replace the coat he’d ruined. A half block ahead, seated on the edge of the boardwalk and leaning against a post, was a drunk—or a beggar. Ross slowed his pace for a look. Although beggars were few in this town, drunks were as common as hoof prints. What differed about this one was the hand-lettered sign he held propped in his lap. It read:
AVERY TUTTLE,
Owner of the Blue Hole Mine
A Robber, Liar, Murderer
Takes silver for the lives of miners
Most pedestrians walked around the man’s legs sprawled out in the sidewalk. Others gave him only a curious glance as they passed. One or two stopped to read the sign as Ross came up. The man was emaciated, obviously drunk or sick, with a week’s worth of whiskers, his eyes wearing a watery, glazed look that focused on nothing. As Ross watched, the man pulled a bottle from behind the sign and took a swig. From a few feet away, the square-faced bottle and label looked like some kind of patent medicine.
Ross was curious. If there was something about the Blue Hole Mine he should know, he meant to find outwhat it was. He hunkered down. “Hey mister, what’s this about Avery Tuttle and his
Similar Books
