pyragyrite — the kind of silver ore that contained feldspar, mica flecks, and the reddish, almost crystalline metal known as ruby silver. Nothing unusual in a man, even a cowhand, carrying silver ore in these mountains, he thought; and from what he had learned last night Dixon had done some prospecting in his free time. He returned the chunk to the jacket and went through the pockets of a pair of equally faded and patched Levi’s.
A clasp knife with a chipped handle. A silver half eagle that Quincannon held up to catch the lamplight, just long enough to determine that it was not a counterfeit. And a brand-new gold pocket watch, an expensive-looking Elgin with an elaborately scrolled hunting case that depicted a railroading scene. Quincannon flipped open the dustcover, read what was etched on the casing inside.
Jason Elder — 1893.
From the alleyway outside, just as he closed the cover, he heard the sound of a horse and buggy approaching. The Elgin watch went into the pocket of his frock coat, and not a moment too soon: the door to the hallway opened and Turnbuckle came hurrying in.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lyons,” the undertaker said, “but you’ll have to leave now. Dr. Petersen is here.”
Quincannon sighed. “Of course. I do appreciate your kindness.”
“Yes. Now if you will just come with me…”
When they reached the front entrance Quincannon said, “I wonder, Mr. Turnbuckle, if you would allow me to make a small contribution to the burial fund.”
Someone had begun to rap on the alley door to the workroom. But Turnbuckle paid no attention to that. His face showed animation again; his ears seemed to prick up like a dog’s. “Well,” he said, “well, that is hardly necessary, Mr. Lyons. But if you prefer it…”
“Oh, I do.” Quincannon took a five-dollar note from his billfold and handed it to the undertaker. “You will see to it that he has a nice casket, won’t you?”
“Oh, indeed. Indeed I will.”
Quincannon left Turnbuckle clutching the greenback. It gave him a moment of small, wry amusement to think of what Boggs would say when he encountered an expense labeled “five dollars for Whistling Dixon’s burial fund.” But it had been money well spent. If Silver City was like other frontier towns, Turnbuckle would receive a fixed sum from city coffers for the burial of men such as Dixon, men without families or estates. Which meant he would be required to itemize any contributions to the burial fund that he received, and to turn the money over to the city — and Turnbuckle had not struck him as the sort of man Diogenes had been searching for with his lantern. The five dollars would disappear. And when it did, any inclination Turnbuckle might have to mention Andrew Lyons’ curious visit would disappear along with it.
A pair of brewery wagons, both drawn by thick-bodied dray horses, clogged the street in front of the brewery, waiting to enter the warehouse. The big doors were open and the rich, yeasty smell of beer spiced the air. It made Quincannon thirsty, but it was a thirst he ignored for the moment. The Elgin watch with its fancy case and its inscription was a conscious weight in his pocket.
Why had Whistling Dixon been carrying another man’s watch? What was his connection to the opium-smoking tramp printer, Jason Elder?
Chapter 6
The newspaper office was on Volunteer Street, between Jordan and Washington. Through the front window glass, Quincannon could see a man inside at the rear, working at the bulky black shape of a printing press. The mane of hemp-colored hair identified the man as Will Coffin.
Quincannon entered. Coffin glanced over at him, said, “Good morning,” in gruff tones, but made no move to leave his labors at the press. He seemed to be alone in the cluttered-office, with its two desks and stacks of newsprint and walls framed with past issues of the Volunteer. And judging from his tone and from the scowl that twisted his ink-smudged features, he was in a bad humor today.
The press, Quincannon saw as he crossed the office, was an old Albion. Coffin was setting type — taking oily ten-point from the type case on its sloping frames and fitting it into his brass type stick. The smells of printer’s ink and oil and newsprint, and the pungent aroma of Coffin’s pipe tobacco, were strong in the office.
Quincannon said, “You seem in dark spirits this morning, Mr. Coffin.”
“I am, and with good cause. The damned heathens broke in here again while I was in Boise.”
“Chinese, you mean?”
“Certainly. Who else would I mean?”
“Was anything stolen?”
“No. But it took me two hours to clean up the results of their mischief.” Coffin glowered down at the type stick. “And as if Chinamen running amok aren’t trouble enough, I have to do all my own typesetting in order to get the next issue out on time. Damned nuisance all around.”
“What about the compositor who sometimes works for you? Jason Elder, is it?”
“Him,” Coffin said, as if the words were an epithet. “I went looking for him early this morning; he isn’t at that pigsty he lives in and seems not to have been there for days. He is nowhere to be found.”
“You have no idea where he might have gone?”
“To hell on his opium pipe, for all I know or care. Tramp printers! Even at their best, they are notoriously unreliable.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Coffin, I’ve heard it mentioned that you yourself were once a tramp printer.”
Coffin didn’t answer immediately. The type stick was full; he justified the line and then turned to set it in the galley, completing a column. “I was much younger then,” he said. “Young men are prone to foolish endeavors. Besides, it was my father’s profession — printing, that is. He wasn’t a tramp; he owned his own printing and engraving shop in Kansas City for thirty years.”
“An expert engraver, was he?” Quincannon asked.
“Yes. He designed his own type face, among other things.”
“And you inherited his talent in that area?”
“No, not at all,” Coffin said. “I have limited abilities in the printing trade; three years of tramping from Kansas to Montana convinced me of that. Writing copy is a far better occupation than setting it, and a far more suitable one for me.”
“I bow to your knowledge of both fields. The only profession I know well, I’m afraid, is patent medicine.”
Coffin started to comb fingers through his hair, remembered in time that they were stained with ink, and wiped them on a press rag. He lit an already ink-smeared pipe. When he had it drawing he said, “What brings you here this morning, Mr. Lyons? No takers for your nerve and brain salts?”
“On the contrary. I’ve already sold six cases to Mr. Judson at the Harmony Drug Store.”
“A fruitful morning for you, then.”
“So far as business goes,” Quincannon said. “Privately, the news is much grimmer.”
“Yes, the murder of your friend Whistling Dixon.”
“Then you know about that.”
“Of course. News travels rapidly in Silver — and bad news reaches my door sooner than most. I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here setting type instead of out gathering information.”
“I am, yes.”
“I’ve owned the Volunteer three years and never missed a single Wednesday’s publication,” Coffin said. “It is a matter of pride with me. If I don’t spend the rest of today and most of tonight right here in the office, there will be no paper tomorrow.”
Quincannon asked, “But have you spoken to the marshal? Do you have any further details?”
“Is that why you’ve come, Mr. Lyons? Seeking information on Dixon’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I haven’t spoken to Marshal McClew yet and I expect I know nothing more about Dixon’s death than you. And I won’t until McClew comes to see me later today. He always does in such matters, just in time for me to write my story. He enjoys seeing his name in print.”
