West of Washoe by Tim Champlin

haven’t violated any confidences by telling you this. If you and Clemens have already exposed Fossett in print, maybe he’s fighting back because he doesn’t want it to be known he’s part of a larger criminal conspiracy involving a mine owner and Ben Holladay’s attempted takeover of the Wells, Fargo Pioneer Stage Line.”
    Scrivener sipped his gin and looked thoughtful. “What did you have in mind?” he finally asked.
    “To begin, I’d like to get a good look into the Blue Hole Mine, to see if it’s producing. But I don’t know how to go about it. Miners are working around the clock, including a foreman and probably a superintendent much of the time. Don’t see how I can slip in. Asking permission would be a waste of time.”
    “Nobody at the Blue Hole knows you on sight, except that miner you met today,” Scrivener said. “If Avery Tuttle is out to unload that mine on some sucker, maybeyou could pretend to be that sucker. Then someone would have to let you in to look around to avoid suspicion. No prospective buyer is going to purchase, sight unseen.”
    “Wouldn’t Tuttle stand to make more money if he sold stock in the mine, mostly to investors overseas who wouldn’t be likely to come here?” Ross asked.
    “Sure. He could be successful doing that very thing, because investors in England and other countries know of the actual concentration of good ore on the Comstock. They’d therefore be more trusting that all mines in this area are rich. Fossett’s Gold Hill Clarion would trumpet the richness of the mine to help him. But Tuttle would be taking a big risk. If he were caught, he could be convicted of fraud and go to prison. By selling outright, he leaves himself in the clear because he could always say the vein pinched out right after he sold, so it’s not his fault. Strictly a buyer beware situation.”
    Ross shook his head. “If there’s a new way to skin your fellow man, some sharp crook is going to think of it.”
    “The human mind can be just as inventive when put to criminal uses as it can when put to good uses.” Scrivener took a sip of gin, apparently not dismayed by the vicissitudes of humans.
    Ross silently considered the idea of posing as a buyer. Risky. What if he were recognized and identified as a government mine inspector? At the very least, he’d be cussed at and thrown out. At worst…? He shivered, and quickly dismissed the possibility of some violent reaction on the part of the foreman or superintendent. But Scrivener’s suggestion was sound. It was probably the only way he’d be able to see inside the Blue Hole.
    “I’ll have at it in the morning,” Ross said. “When Ibuy a new coat, I’ll make it a nice one, if they’re to be fooled into thinking I have money.”
    Scrivener grinned. “I’d lend you my diamond stickpin…if I owned one. Fifty dollars a week salary in this town hasn’t made me one of the nabobs.”

Chapter Eight
    “Chester Gibbons, from San Francisco,” Ross said, extending his hand to the superintendent of the Blue Hole Mine. They stood by the hoisting works the next morning at 10:00 a.m.
    “Barry Gunderson,” the middle-aged man said, eyes peeking between pouches of fat below and hooded lids above.
    The night before, Scrivener had said that Gunderson was known on the Comstock as Old Squinch Eye. “He may appear to be putting a hex on you with his evil eye, but don’t pay him any mind. In spite of his size and look, the man’s as harmless as a garter snake. Just stick to your tale of being a buyer, and you’ll do all right.”
    “I represent a group of Montgomery Street investors,” Ross continued. “They’ve asked me to have a look at the Blue Hole before they make Mister Tuttle an offer on it.” He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off the sleeve of his black broadcloth coat. He’d draped his gold watch chain across his mid-section, from one vest pocket to the other. “It’s not as if they don’t trust the assay reports and