The Bride of Willow Creek(41)

“I haven’t noticed any of them spending any extra money.”

“Me either,” Can agreed with a sigh. “Are the union   people still talking about suing you?”

Sam shrugged. “Marsh Collins says they don’t have a case. You can’t punish a man because a crime happens on his watch. I’m hoping the union   lawyers see it the same way and the suit doesn’t materialize.” Meanwhile, it was costing him a bloody fortune in attorney’s fees. Every time Collins received a letter about the matter, he and Sam had to confer. Then Collins sent him another bill. “Are you having any luck with your claims?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I’ve got one that’s starting to look interesting. But the vein I’m following could peter out. Who knows?”

Can’s response was vague and Sam expected no less. Only a fool would broadcast a rich strike before everything was confirmed and his next move solidly protected.

“So, what’s going on?” he asked after a minute.

“Easy Effie, up in Poverty Gulch, overdosed on morphine last night. Third whore this month who’s killed herself. Another assay office opened up near the depot—that’s forty-two assay offices now. There’s strike talk up at the Vindicator. The mayor is threatening to ride up to Victor and kick their mayor’s butt because Victor’s mayor said our mayor couldn’t manage a sewing bee, let alone a town.” Can laughed. “That English syndicate is still nosing around, looking for promising sites they can steal for a song. Some damned fool shot himself in the foot while he was chasing another damned fool down Myers Street, claiming the second damned fool stole his money and grabbed his woman. The only other items of interest are that Mrs. Finn scalded her arm in hot grease, and Mrs. Leland finally died of whatever was ailing her.”

Sam nodded. “You just saved me several hours at the Slipper. Guess I’ll work here until late and then take my watch at the Dryfus place.” Every watch he took saved him the cost of paying someone else overtime. Wadding the wax paper into a ball, he tossed it toward his lunch bucket and tool belt. “Thanks for the sandwich and the news.”

“One thing.” Can peered at him through the darkness. “Are you getting close to what you need for Daisy’s surgery?”

“Not yet.”

Standing abruptly, he walked to the pit and descended the ladder. Lifting his pick, he hefted the weight in his hand and stared at the sylvanite he was following. Sylvanite was pay dirt. Occasionally a lucky miner accidentally opened a vug that contained gold as most people pictured it. But the district’s fortunes had been made by extracting gold from sylvanite. The frustrating fact was that sylvanite could contain little gold, some gold, or a rich concentration. It wasn’t enough to locate the sylvanite. A man had to find the rich concentration. After next payday, he’d take in another sample of his ore and have the gold content assayed.

Sam swung tired arms over his head, felt the jolt as the pick bit into solid rock, then he jerked and twisted the handle, bringing down a shower of loose dirt and rock that covered his boots to the ankle. And then again. And again, over and over into the night.

He had Daisy’s surgery to motivate him. And the divorce he and Angie wanted. Riches. There was plenty to think about as the moon climbed in the sky. So it irritated him that he spent most of the night thinking about Angie.

And wishing he could pound Peter De Groot into the dirt.





Chapter 8

Nibbling on the end of the pen, Angie tapped her fingertips on a half-covered sheet of stationery and stared into space. What to say and how to say it, that was her dilemma. Peter would be disappointed to learn that her divorce could not happen in the foreseeable future. So was she.

On the other hand, Peter was a patient man. His interest and affection were of long standing, although she hadn’t suspected until a few months ago. Because he was an honorable man, not once in all those years had he behaved in a manner that indicated he viewed her as other than a casual friend. Not until the terrible aftermath of her father’s death, not until she announced that she was selling her home and leaving at once for Willow Creek to speak to Sam about a divorce, had Peter declared himself. Only then did Angie suddenly and thrillingly see him as a suitor and possible husband.

The idea of Peter as the future she was trying to reach was still new and exciting. One of the many things she had missed was a genuine courtship, but it appeared she would have one. When she thought of Peter, she daydreamed about flowers and lacy boxes of candy and lovely dinners in elegant restaurants. He had promised those things lay ahead for them.