When they stepped into the store, it was redolent with the familiar smells of cured ham and bacon, dried jerky, flour, spices, apples, onions, and tobacco. Smoke bought jerky, bacon, dried beans, flour, and tobacco.
“Hope nobody finds you,” the small, middle-aged, balding man said as he piled all the purchases up on the counter.
“Beg your pardon?” Bobby Lee said.
The grocer chuckled. “Boys, you don’t have to be coy with me. I been in this business a long time. I can tell by what you’re buying, what you’re up to. You’ve found a promising strike somewhere and you want to work it alone until it’s developed. Like I say, I hope nobody finds you. ”
“Oh, uh, you’re right. You startled me, I didn’t think it was that obvious,” Bobby Lee said.
“You can’t fool an old man like me,” the grocer said. “I hope you have an authentic strike, but I have to warn you, I spent twenty years poking around up there in the Toquima Range, where I found a lot of places that looked promising, but I never found anything that paid out. That’s why I give it up and come down here to run this store. Started out by just working here, but saved my money and bought it from the man that owned it first.”
“Sounds like a smart thing to do,” Smoke said as he paid for the purchases and began putting them into a cloth bag. “You would be Mr. Groves, would you? ”
“No, sir, my name is Wagner. I kept the name Groves ‘cause that’s the name of the fella who owned the store first, and that’s how folks remember it.” Wagner smiled. “Plus which, I wound up marryin’ Mr. Groves’ daughter and keeping the same name of the store helps keep peace in the family.”
“I notice you have three saloons in town,” Smoke said. “Which one is the most popular?”
“The New York Saloon is the best,” the grocer replied. “And it’s always filled with people.”
“What about the other two? The Lucky Chance and the Lost Mine?” Smoke asked.
“The Lucky Chance isn’t bad,” he said. “But the Lost Mine?” He shook his head. “I ain’t never been in it, but from what I hear, there don’t nobody but the dregs of the county ever go in there. They say it ain’t nowhere near as nice as the New York.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Smoke said, gathering up his sack of groceries. Once outside, he tied the sack to the saddle horn, then untied the horse and swung into the saddle.
“What do you say we get us a beer?”
“Sounds good to me. The New York?” Bobby Lee replied.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“You check out the Last Chance, have a beer, keep your ears open and see what you hear. I’ll do the same thing at the Lost Mine. We’ll meet in the New York in about an hour and compare notes.”
“All right,” Bobby Lee agreed.
The Lost Mine was at the far end of the street from Groves General Store. It was right across the street from the New York Saloon, and whereas the New York Saloon had a fresh coat of paint and a bright new sign, the Lost Mine was weathered and the sign was so dim, it could scarcely be read.
There was no piano in the Lost Mine, and there were only two working women. Dissipation pulled at both of them, and one had a purple flash of scar that started above her left eye, slashed down across her cheek, then hooked back toward her mouth. Upon seeing Smoke step into the saloon, the two women smiled and looked toward him. Smoke acknowledged their smile with a polite nod of his head, but as he approached the bar, he turned his body so that he presented his back to them, by way of letting them know that he had no interest in female companionship.
“What will it be?” the bartender asked. The bartender was wearing an apron that looked, and smelled, as if it hadn’t been washed in months.
“Beer,” Smoke said.
The bartender grabbed a mug from the bar. There was still an inch of beer at the bottom of the mug, and without pouring it out, he held the mug under the spigot of the beer barrel and started to pull the handle.
“A clean glass,” Smoke said.
The bartender shrugged his shoulders and set the mug aside, then took an empty one from under the bar.
“A bit choosy, ain’t you?” the bartender asked as he drew the beer.
“Let’s just say that I want to drink my own beer,” Smoke said, putting a nickel down as the beer was delivered.
“Prospectin', are you?” the bartender asked.
“I might be.”
“All right, I understand,” the bartender said, taking a step back from the bar, then lifting his hands, palm out. “Folks come here, absolutely certain they’re goin’ to get rich, they find ‘em a spot they think nobody else has ever seen, then they want to keep it secret.”
“You mean my spot isn’t secret?” Smoke asked.
The bartender grunted what might have been a laugh. “Ha. More than likely there’s been a dozen prospectors done busted their backs tryin’ to prove out the very spot you’re on now.”
“Yes, well, I’ll just keep it secret if you don’t mind,” Smoke said, responding to the bartender’s reasoning.
The bartender drifted away and Smoke nursed his beer, listening in to a dozen different conversations to see if he could pick up a clue as to where to find Frank Dodd.
Fifteen miles southwest of Lunning, in the small town of Marrietta, Emmett Clark was having his lunch in the Silver Palace Cafe.
