these when I have a bill of sale,” he said.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“No more than you trust me.”
Truax made a laughing sound that had no mirth in it. He set out upslope; Bogardus stared after him for a moment and then followed, and Quincannon did the same. Inside the mine office Truax clumped past a man seated at a high desk piled with ledgers, went through a doorway into a private office, and sat down at a polished cherrywood desk that was much too ornate to have been made in Silver City. Neither Bogardus nor Quincannon shut the door when they entered. Bogardus slapped the five hundred-dollar notes on the desktop, kept his hand on them until Truax had written out a bill of sale and signed it and Bogardus had read it over. Truax added the greenbacks to others in a silver clip of his own; Bogardus put the bill of sale away inside his frock coat. Not a word was spoken through all of this, nor after the transaction was finished. The two men exchanged a final look, after which Bogardus turned on his heel and stalked out.
Quincannon closed the door and occupied a chair opposite Truax. “I take it you and Mr. Bogardus aren’t friends,” he said.
“Friends? The man is a scoundrel and worse.”
“How so, Mr. Truax?”
“For one thing, he is a fornicator. I cannot abide a fornicator.”
So Truax did know, or at least suspect, that his wife might be cuckolding him with Bogardus. Quincannon asked, “Is he also dishonest?”
“He is. Dishonesty is how he obtained his Rattling Jack mine two years ago.”
“Oh? A swindle?”
“Not precisely. The former owner, Jack Finkle, had it up for sale because of failing health — asking a fair price, I might add. Bogardus arranged two accidents at the mine, one that crippled Finkle’s son-in-law, in order to drive the selling price down to where he could afford it. Everyone knows it was his work, but nothing was ever proved.”
“The Rattling Jack is a well-paying mine, then?”
“It wasn’t until Bogardus struck a new vein six months ago. The old vein was gradually pinching out.” Truax’s voice was bitter; it was plain that he begrudged Bogardus his newfound wealth. “Now his ore is assaying at one hundred dollars a ton, so he claims. Half of what the Paymaster assays at twice the tonnage per day, but still substantial.”
“Is that why he needs a new freight wagon? To ship more of his silver?”
“Evidently. He lost his biggest wagon last week, I’m told; one of his drivers misjudged a turn coming down the pass road, his load shifted, and the wagon went over the side.” Truax said that last with satisfaction.
Quincannon asked, “Is Bogardus a native of Silver City?”
“No. Came here a few months before he purchased the Rattling Jack.”
“From where?”
“Somewhere in Oregon.” Truax frowned. “You seem unduly interested in Bogardus, Mr. Lyons.”
Quincannon smiled disarmingly. “Idle curiosity,” he said. “I fear I have an inquisitive nature.”
“Indeed.” Truax opened a humidor on his desk, took out an expensive cheroot, sniffed it, then picked up a pair of silver clippers and snipped off the end. He did not offer Quincannon one of the cigars. “Now then,” he said, when he had the cheroot burning to his satisfaction, “you wanted to discuss the purchase of Paymaster stock?”
“Yes. Are shares available?”
“Possibly. But you’ll pardon me, Mr. Lyons, if I ask how a patent medicine drummer can expect to buy valuable shares in one of the largest and most profitable silver mines in the state of Idaho.”
“Oh, it’s not I who is interested in purchasing the shares,” Quincannon said. “No, I am inquiring on behalf of the president of my company, Mr. Arthur Caldwell of San Francisco. You’ve heard of him, surely?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“A very important man,” Quincannon said. “He is a close friend of Mar. Charles Crocker, among others.”
Truax had heard of Crocker, one of the “Big Four” railroad tycoons who had been potent factors in the shaping of California politics and economy for close to thirty years; and the name impressed him. Interest glittered in his eyes again, ignited by what Quincannon took to be the spark of greed. “Mr. Caldwell is well-to-do, then?” he asked.
“Extremely. Stock speculation is both a hobby and an avocation with him; he has been quite successful.”
“Am I to understand that you act as his agent in such matters?”
“No, not at all. I am merely a patent medicine drummer, as you pointed out, although I do have ambitions, of course. I have scouted likely stock prospects for Mr. Caldwell in the past, and he has seen fit to reward my help with cash bonuses. I expect I will also soon be promoted to a managerial position with our San Francisco office.”
“I see,” Truax said. He waved away a cloud of fragrant smoke. “And you feel the Paymaster Mining Company would be a good investment for him?”
“I do, based on inquiries I made in town this morning. I spoke to Sabina Carpenter, for one. She told me she recently purchased an amount of Paymaster stock.”
“Yes, that’s correct. Five thousand dollars’ worth.”
Quincannon raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite a substantial investment for the owner of a millinery shop.”
“An inheritance from an aunt in Denver, I believe.”
“Ah, I see,” Quincannon said. But he was wondering if that was really where Sabina Carpenter had obtained the five thousand dollars. “Can you tell me how much stock is available for purchase by Mr. Caldwell?”
“Well, the original issue was twenty-five thousand shares, nearly all of which has been sold. I’ll have to check to determine just how much is left. However, I can tell you now that one of our large Seattle stockholders has expressed a willingness to sell at the right price.”
“How many shares does this stockholder control?”
“Let me see… two thousand, I believe.”
“Do you know how much he would be willing to take for them?”
“He has said he would accept fifty dollars a share. Fair market value, I assure you.”
“You yourself own controlling stock in the company, I take it — you and your charming wife.”
“I do, yes,” Truax said. “Ten thousand shares. But the stock is in my name alone.
“Mrs. Truax has none at all?”
“No. Well, I gifted her with two hundred and fifty shares as a wedding present, but that is hardly a significant amount.”
“Do any of the other major stockholders live in Silver City?” Quincannon asked.
“No. They are all scattered throughout Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and California.”
Quincannon sat in speculative silence for a time. Truax, who seemed to be trying to contain his eagerness, took the opportunity to fetch up a bottle of Kentucky sour mash from a sideboard behind his desk.
“Drink, Mr. Lyons?”
“Well… I don’t mind if I do.”
Truax poured one for each of them. Quincannon drank his without savoring or even tasting it; except for its low heat in his throat and stomach, it might have been bootleg hooch made out of tobacco and wood alcohol.
Truax said in greasy tones, “May I count on you to recommend the Paymaster Mining Company to Mr. Caldwell?”
“I will recommend that he consider it, yes.”
“Excellent.”
“He will make inquiries of his own, naturally,” Quincannon said. “And if he does decide to buy, I’m sure he’ll contact you directly.”
“I shall be delighted to hear from him.” Quincannon made as if to vacate his chair, and Truax said, as Quincannon had hoped he would, “Another drink before you leave?”
“Yes, thanks. Kind of you.”
He made the second whiskey last for two swallows. Then he stood and shook hands with Truax, who
