“Certainly. Any preference?”
“I don’t suppose you have a Navy Colt?”
“No. Do you normally carry such an outmoded weapon?”
Quincannon bristled at that. “Outmoded? Not when it has been converted to fire .38-caliber rimfire cartridges. What large-caliber weapon can you supply?”
“A Colt Peacemaker, if that will do.”
“It will. And don’t tell me you intend to charge for the loan?”
“Not unless you fire it.”
“Faugh! And if I should?”
“The fee would depend on the number of rounds fired and whether there is any damage to the weapon.”
“Flannery, you’re a blasted bloodsucker.”
“Not at all. Merely an astute businessman.”
“Yes? Well, so am I. Next time you ask something of us, you’ll pay and pay dear for it.”
Flannery smiled good-naturedly. “Quid pro quo,” he said.
Flannery’s private equipage was a newish four-wheel brougham, all black, including curtains and sidelamps, drawn by a blue dun — the kind of conveyance that could be driven anywhere, from high-toned neighborhoods to slums, without attracting undue attention. Quincannon and Sabina sat on comfortable tufted leather seats inside. He half expected a hired driver, but no, Flannery took the reins himself.
Quincannon felt the prod of envy again as they set off, though such a vehicle was an extravagance better suited to this flatland country than to hilly San Francisco, and more cheaply housed here as well. He and Sabina had discussed purchasing a carriage for their personal as well as professional use, which they could certainly afford, but he had not been able to justify the outlay of funds. Perhaps the time had come to take the plunge now that they were about to be man and wife, and hang the expense. The cost could be recouped by raising their agency rates to the level of Flannery’s.
West Sacramento was one of three small communities on the opposite shore of the Sacramento River, the other two being Bryte and Broderick. During the Gold Rush, it had been a settlement stop for California Steam Navigation Company riverboats bearing travelers through then-treacherous marshlands to Sacramento and the gold fields. Nowadays it was primarily an agricultural and fishing center, though enough treasure seekers still mined the river’s sloughs and byways to support small-scale assayers and outfitting merchants.
A short ferry ride transported them from Sacramento’s public dock to West Sacramento’s. Delta Metallurgical Works was situated a short distance from the waterfront landing, in a section mostly occupied by saloons, eateries, and transient lodging houses. As they clattered along Poplar Street, Flannery called down that their objective was coming up on the right. Quincannon unsnapped the side curtain, peered out.
The place was about the size of one of the miners’ shacks in Patch Creek and no better constructed — a false-fronted, board-and-batten building flanked on one side by an ironmonger’s shop and on the other by a lot containing the skeleton of a building under construction. Hardly a prosperous assay business, likely no more than a legitimate or semi-legitimate cloak for Bart Morgan’s nefarious activities. A wooden sign tacked to the windowless wall next to the entrance gave its name in faded black letters. Atop the flat tar-paper roof, wisps of smoke curled out of a tin chimney stack into the morning overcast.
“Occupied,” he said to Sabina, who was leaning sideways to look past him.
“By Morgan, I hope.”
“We’ll soon find out.”
Flannery drove on a short distance, brought the carriage to a stop, and swung down. Quincannon adjusted the holster for the Colt Peacemaker that Flannery had supplied — the weapon was clean and well balanced, a reassuring weight on his hip — and opened the door. Before he stepped out, Sabina gripped his arm and urged him to caution.
“I am always cautious in these situations,” he assured her.
“Not as much as you should be sometimes. Don’t make me a widow before I become a bride.”
“Not before, my dear, and not after.”
There was little traffic on the street, few pedestrians on the sidewalks. A light, cold breeze carried the faint mingled odors of river mud and marsh growth. From somewhere downstream, a high-pitched whistle announced a steamboat’s imminent arrival at the Sacramento dock.
When they reached the door to the assay building, Quincannon drew his coattail away from the Peacemaker and wrapped his fingers around the handle. He had not forgotten Morgan’s lightning-fast draw in Patch Creek. Then he led the way inside, with Flannery close behind him.
Anticlimax.
The lone man in the cluttered room was not Bart Morgan.
He half turned when he heard the door open — a scrawny, vulpine individual who had lived some sixty years and had half a dozen strands of dark hair plastered to a liver-spotted scalp. He said, “Be with you in a minute, gents,” and turned away to close the door to a glowing assay furnace.
Quincannon neither relaxed nor removed his hand from the butt of the Peacemaker. A long scan of the room, lighted by a pair of kerosene lamps, showed him a closed door at the rear. He moved ahead to a counter on which several ore samples were arranged, some of which had sat there untouched for so long they were coated with dust. Flannery hung back against the wall near the entrance.
The fox-faced man was now hovering over a plank bench strewn with sample sacks, molds, flux bins, tongs, cupels. He opened a glass case of balance scales, took one out, and set a chunk of ore on it. He was watching the balance needle quiver when Quincannon spoke sharply.
“Is the proprietor here?”
“Mr. Morgan? Nope,” the man said without looking up.
“Anyone else besides you?”
“Nope. Just me, Floyd Tucker.”
“You expect Morgan this morning?”
“Nope.”
“That door at the rear. Where does it lead?”
“Storeroom.”
Flannery, on his own initiative, went to open the door and look inside. He nodded once in confirmation before shutting it again and returning to his stance by the entrance.
Tucker’s attention was still fixed on the balance scale. He made an adjustment that held the needle motionless, then squinted to read the gauge.
Quincannon said to him, “So Morgan doesn’t live here.”
“No, he sure don’t.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Can’t say. Look, mister, I’ll be with you directly—”
“You’ll be with me right now,” Quincannon said, and smacked the countertop with the flat of his hand. The ore samples jumped like hop toads and so did Tucker. He swung around, blinked, blinked again. More than one man had quailed at one of Quincannon’s fearsome stares and Tucker was no exception.
“What’s the idea?” he said. “You in a hurry?”
“That’s right. In a hurry to find Morgan.”
“Dunno where he is. I haven’t seen him in two weeks.”
Quincannon drew the Peacemaker, laid it on the counter. “You best not be lying to me.”
The heat from the assay furnace had put a sheen of sweat on Tucker’s face; the sight of the gun thickened it and broke it into runnels. He seemed to shrink another inch or two, and his Adam’s apple commenced a spasmodic bobbing in his scrawny throat.
“I ain’t lying, mister. Honest. Two weeks since I seen Mr. Morgan, and he didn’t tell me where he was headed or when he’d be back.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Three years, off and on, since I moved up here from Modesto to live with my daughter after my wife passed away. Two, three days a week when he’s busy elsewhere and there’s enough work to do. Ain’t been much, lately, and there’ll be less come winter—”