Longarm and the Dime Novelist Read online

  “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.”<
br />
  “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.”

  DeQuille shook his head. “I think this entire conversation is about as credible as the crap Sam Clemens and I used to write when we couldn’t find any real stories.”

  “Be that as it may,” Longarm said. “We are here to investigate and even though Max Pennington is not in Virginia City, I’d like to at least see his operation.”

  “It’s called the Empire Mine and you’ll find it at the west end of town.”

  “Is it still being worked?” Delia asked.

  “Max has a crabby old fella named Pete who lives and works the mine when he is sober. He likes to sit in a chair and drink whiskey and shoot coyotes and varmints. He calls himself a ‘guardian’ of the mine so if you go out there and try to get near the Empire, you had better be careful because Pete is the kind that shoots first and asks questions later. He’s as loony as a shithouse rat and ornery as a teased snake.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Longarm said, coming to his feet. “So you never saw any young blond woman other than Annie, who is a saloon girl at the Bucket of Blood?”

  “No.”

  “Then thanks for your time,” Longarm said, preparing to leave.

  DeQuille stood up quickly. “Will you promise to let me know as soon as you determine what happened to the missing Pierce girl?”

  “Do you have a telegraph office here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll send you a telegram the minute I know anything.”

  “You may never know anything,” DeQuille reasoned. “I just have a bad feeling that Emily Pierce is dead and buried.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Miss Wilson?” DeQuille called as they were on their way out the door.

  “Yes?”

  “If you use any of this in a dime novel, be sure and spell my name correctly and mention the Territorial Enterprise. Might help me get a few more subscribers.”

  “I’ll do that,” Delia promised. “And would you like an autographed copy of my latest dime novel?”

  “Not really.”

  Delia swallowed hard and closed the door saying to Longarm, “I’ll bet my next dime novel makes one hell of a lot more money than he makes in an entire year as editor of his dying rag.”

  “Probably so. I think you had better go back to our hotel and wait while I go see the Empire Mine.”

  “I want to come along.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will be interesting. And you won’t let old Pete shoot us, will you?”

  Longarm patted the gun on his hip. “Not if I can possibly help it.”

  Chapter 16

  “That must be it,” Longarm said, pointing toward a big hoisting works and tailings pile along with a couple of tin-roofed buildings and cabin or office whose faded paint had peeled off in big patches.

  “Yeah, and that old man sitting out in front with a rifle laid across his lap is probably Pete,” Delia said. “Looks like he might be taking a nap.”

  Longarm agreed. Pete was tipped back in a chair resting against the front door of the little building. His boots were propped up on a busted wheelbarrow and his head was tilted back with his hat pulled low over his eyes. Even from a distance they could both hear him snoring.

  “The problem is that Pete’s guard dog has already seen us and he’s pretty damned big and he doesn’t look friendly.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Longarm considered their next move. The last thing he wanted to do was to approach Pete and then have the dog suddenly attack. If that happened, he’d probably have to shoot the beast and by then Pete would be shooting at them.

  “I think we’d better play this safe and just call out to the man so we don’t startle him into doing something stupid.”

  Before Delia could reply, Longarm cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Hey, Pete! We came to talk with you!”

  The dog that looked like a wolf jumped to its feet, hair rising on his shoulders and with its massive head down started in their direction. Longarm could see its bared fangs and he had no doubt at all that the animal’s bite would be deep and bloody.

  “Delia!” he said, pulling his Colt revolver with one hand and with the other he pushed the woman behind him. “Stay behind me!”

  “You’re just going to shoot him?”

  “If he attacks, then you bet I will.”

  Longarm cocked back the hammer of the gun and took aim. The dog wasn’t running at them, just trotting with its head down and its lips curled. They could hear it growling and snarling. Longarm had been bitten by dogs before and he had no intention of letting this huge dog take a piece out of his arm, leg, or even his throat.

  “Pete!” Longarm shouted again. “Don’t
make me shoot your damned watchdog!”

  Pete started awake and almost fell out of his chair. He looked around, momentarily dazed, and saw his dog and the visitors, one with a pistol up and ready to fire.

  “Goliath! Come here! Goliath, no!”

  But the dog kept coming and just as Longarm was about to fire, Pete yanked up his rife and let off a shot. His bullet struck gravel just behind Goliath and sprayed the dog’s ass with flying dirt and rock.

  Goliath abruptly changed direction, heading fast for the sagebrush.

  Longarm lowered his revolver. “Pete, I need to talk to you!”

  “I got nothin’ to say to nobody! Git!” To emphasize his point, Pete raised the rifle and pointed it toward Longarm and Delia, levering another shell into the breech.

  “The damn fool!” Longarm hissed. He took quick aim and fired. His bullet clipped Pete’s hat and sent it flying. Pete shouted and Longarm fired, causing the old man to trip and fall while cussing a blue streak.

  Longarm dashed forward, and as Pete made a grab for his rifle, Longarm kicked it aside and grabbed Pete by the throat. “You loco old bastard! I’m a United States marshal and I just came to talk. You could have killed me and the woman!”

  Pete coughed out a strangled curse and Longarm slapped him hard across the face. Pete’s eyes rolled up in his head and Longarm dragged him to his feet. “Are you crazy or drunk?”

  “Let go of me, you big son of a bitch!”

  Longarm shook him hard and then let him slump to the ground. “I swear I never met a more foolish old codger.”

  Pete looked up at him with bloodshot eyes and hissed, “If I was as young as you again, I’d kick your ass from here down to Carson City.”

  “Never in your best day. Now get up!”

  Pete struggled to his feet.

  “Where is Maxwell Pennington?” he asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to see if Pete was going to be honest or lie.

  “He’s off in Fallon! I’m paid to watch this mine, and by gawd, nobody invited you or that woman here.”

  Longarm signaled for Delia to come and join them. He turned back to Pete. “How come you tried to shoot us when all we wanted to do was talk?”