“In the guise of a hardrock miner, yes.”
“John...”
“Yes, I know,” he said, “not an easy imposture to carry off. But it can be managed.”
“When would you have to leave?”
“As soon as possible. Tonight or tomorrow morning.”
Sabina’s own suspicions were fully aroused now. She said coolly, “It sounds as though it will be a lengthy undertaking.”
“Not necessarily.”
“But likely, given the circumstances.”
“The financial reward is considerable — a guaranteed per diem fee, plus all expenses and a substantial bonus upon successful completion.”
“Guaranteed fee for how long?”
“Ah, one month.”
“And we’re to be married in three weeks. Or have you forgotten?”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten—”
“But you accepted the assignment nonetheless.”
“I did, but—”
“Without consulting with me first.”
“I wanted to, and I would have if Hoxley hadn’t demanded an immediate answer. I had to make a swift decision—”
“And of course you opted for the considerable financial reward.”
“It was not an easy choice, believe me. I agonized over it.”
“Bosh. Will you ever get over your lust for Mammon?”
“You wound me deeply, my dear. A fair wage for services rendered can hardly be called a lust for Mammon.”
Sabina bit back more harsh words; it would have been like flinging them at a stone wall. She released a sighing breath. “Have it your way, John.”
“Was I wrong in thinking you wouldn’t be upset at the possibility of a brief postponement?”
Now there was a disingenuous statement if ever she’d heard one. “Well, I’m certainly not pleased at the prospect. Neither will Callie be.”
“But invitations haven’t yet been sent out, have they? Or catering arrangements made that can’t be changed? It isn’t as if the wedding is to be one of your cousin’s elaborate affairs...”
Sabina said nothing.
“Evidently I was wrong and you are upset. I apologize, truly. If you object to a potential delay, I will notify Mr. Hoxley that I’ve changed my mind and we’ll proceed with the wedding as planned.”
Oh, drat the man! He sounded contrite and appeared a trifle hangdog... shamming? No. John had his faults, heaven knew, but devious deception was not one of them, at least not in his relations with her. If she insisted, he would do as he’d said and cancel his acceptance, but it was plain that he wanted the job, and that he was loath to disappoint a man of Everett Hoxley’s stature and influence. His agreement to the undercover assignment cast no reflection on his love for her or his desire for the marriage; it was entirely a matter of professional ego and a need if not a lust for the almighty dollar. So she wouldn’t insist. She had to admit she was more miffed at not having been consulted than at the likelihood of a brief delay in their nuptials.
She said, “I won’t object, on one condition. Your solemn promise that if you haven’t brought the matter to a close at the end of one month, you won’t try to wheedle more time on Mr. Hoxley’s payroll.”
“If I can’t put an end to the gold stealing in a month, I’ll eat my hat and yours too on our wedding day. My reputation as a blue-chip detective demands swift and complete success.”
“Then I have your promise?”
“You do. And I would rather die than willingly break it.”
A feeling of tenderness banished the last of her pique. She had no doubt that he meant what he’d just said — more proof, as if she needed any, of his devotion to her.
3
Quincannon
The settlement of Patch Creek, in the northeastern Mother Lode, was not an easy place to get to. It took nearly twelve hours — passage by ferry to Oakland, one train to Sacramento and another to Marysville, then an hour-and-a-half stage ride into the foothills in an old coach with squeaky axles and butt-sprung seat cushions. It was seven o’clock when Quincannon finally reached Patch Creek, stiff and sore and in no mood to be trifled with. The fact that he was wearing rough miner’s clothing, one of three such outfits purchased yesterday in San Francisco (for the cost of which Everett Hoxley would reimburse him), added to his discomfort and his crusty disposition.
He had spent considerable time in various mining settlements over the years, including recent visits to Grass Valley, Nevada City, Jamestown, and Tuttletown. If Patch Creek were the last to draw him for a long while he would count himself fortunate. There was little difference among them other than location and size. All were rowdy, noisy, often violent places, peopled by rough-and-tumble hardrock miners and those individuals who made legal and illegal livings off of them and their needs and vices.
At first sight by starlight and lantern glow, Patch Creek was no exception. Relatively small, about the size of Tuttletown in the southern Mother Lode where he’d recovered a large sum of gold bullion stolen from an allegedly burglarproof safe belonging to the Sierra Railway. The settlement had been built on the upper flank of a canyon, in two sections connected by a bridge spanning the wide stream that gave it its name. Shacks and lodging houses were scattered along the hill on the near side, most of them the high, narrow type common to mining camps — weather-beaten, constructed in close packs, lamplight glowing palely in many of the windows. The business district stretched at a short upward angle on the far side.
The Monarch Mine and its outbuildings stood farther uphill to the south; a sky-stain of lights, both electric and lantern, marked their location. So did the steady throb and pound of the stamp mill where the gold-bearing ore was crushed and separated, the faintly luminous mounds of white tailings, the whistle of a hoisting engine. The Monarch, like most large and profitable mines, operated around the clock.
The stage rattled across the railed bridge and onto the crowded business street — Canyon Street, according to a somewhat lopsided signpost nailed to one of the bridge supports. It took up four blocks of Canyon and most of the streets immediately parallel to it on either side, a jumble of stores, eating places, and the usual assortment of saloons, eateries, Chinese laundries, and parlor houses. More noise hammered at Quincannon as the stage climbed uphill — the tinny beat of music from the garishly lighted saloons, the rumble of wagons, the cries of animals, and the raucous shouts of men. Horses, ore and dray wagons, and private rigs rattled along the street; the boardwalks were crowded with off-shift miners and other pedestrians.
The driver finally brought the rattletrap conveyance to a halt in the creekside yard of a stage and freighting depot. Quincannon alighted with the other two passengers, both mining men and fortunately uncommunicative on the long ride. He stretched the kinks out of cramped muscles, then claimed his war bag.
The stage driver directed him to Miners Lodging House #4. It was on the far side of the bridge, naturally, but only a short distance uphill — a fairly new structure that contained a dozen or more sparsely furnished rooms, each not much larger than a cell. O’Hearn had arranged one for him; he claimed it, but only long enough to stow his war bag under the bunk bed. He was as hungry as he was tired, and he felt the need to get the lay of the town at close quarters.
He was on his own here, with no one other than O’Hearn privy to his true identity and purpose. The mine superintendent had suggested apprising Patch Creek’s sheriff, Micah Calder, but Quincannon had refused. For one thing, experience had taught him that small-town lawmen were not always either as honest or as closemouthed as they appeared to be. For another, O’Hearn had admitted under questioning that Calder, while trustworthy, was only a step or two removed from being dimwitted. Undercover work of this sort was a tricky business; the fewer people who knew about it, the safer and more effective he would be.