The Woodcutter

By Steve Bartholomew

In the winter of 1888, Dana Reynolds has no reason to believe in anything, until he runs afoul of Wovoka. Dana doesn't believe in Truth. Telling the truth was what lost him his job back at the Chronicle in San Francisco. Well, that and drinking a little too much. In Nevada he's learning that Indian agents can be as crooked as politicians. Just asking a few too many questions around here earned him a beating and a cracked rib. Now he was supposed to report on that Paiute so-called prophet, Wovoka, the Woodcutter. The only nice thing about Greenfield, Nevada was Charlene, the telegraph operator. Seems like even she's gullible enough to fall for the Woodcutter's line. He's obviously another fake, as much a fake as Dana himself. Or is he?

This title is published by Dark Gopher Books and is distributed worldwide by Untreed Reads.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Sep 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781611879612

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

Book preview

The Woodcutter

by

Steve Bartholomew

A bad man may do good,

and a good man may do evil.

The Woodcutter

By Steve Bartholomew

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Steve Bartholomew

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright.

Cover art is by the author, © 2012 by Steve Bartholomew

This is a book of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

The Woodcutter

by

Steve Bartholomew

Chapter One

December, 1888

As he stepped off the train, Dana Reynolds felt his lip curl into an involuntary sneer. He had not meant to sneer. He had intended to be an optimist; to think of Virginia City as a fresh start, a new beginning. But his first sight of the place told him it was nothing like San Francisco. For one thing, it was a lot smaller. And not nearly as vertical; from the rail station he couldn’t see any building higher than two stories, and not a really big hill in sight.

Collecting his one piece of luggage, he waved off the redcap who offered to tote it for him and also ignored the hack drivers who offered him rides and started walking. Fortunately the town was pitifully small, so it took only a few minutes to get to the office of the Virginia City News.

That was when Dana nearly slipped back into one of his Bad Habits: talking to himself. He said aloud, "Now that there is the Territorial Enterprise office." Then he caught himself and went on in silence: Too bad they don't need any more reporters. Least of all a washed-up fella like yourself. Back during his drinking days, Dana had talked aloud to himself most of the time. Maybe that was because nobody else wanted to listen. That was one of the reasons he'd finally taken the Pledge. Dana still talked to himself a lot, but mostly not out loud.

Naw, that ain’t right. You ain't washed up, not by no means.

Dana wasn’t the first reporter to get fired from a big time paper for what he wrote about. You’re just getting a change of scenery for health reasons. It's healthier for you to get out of San Francisco right now.

Dana paused to glance at his reflection in a shop window.

You really could use a shave, but it could be worse.

The train ride over the Sierra had been long and brutal, what with all the stops waiting for snow to be cleared. The pot-belly stove in the coach car barely warmed the air around it. It crossed his mind to stop at a saloon for a quick drink before the News office, but he shook his head. That was part of his trouble back in the City. Not the cause of his trouble, but it hadn’t helped.

The News office was cluttered and noisy; the steam press in the back room clanked and groaned and hissed right through the thin walls. Several men in the large office occupied themselves at oak desks, while three or four others seemed intent on rushing back and forth. Dana picked one fellow who looked slightly more disheveled than the others.

Excuse me, sir, I’m looking for Mr Fish.

The man was balding and portly, with a face red as a beet. He’d been bending over a desk, peering at a galley proof. I’m Fish, Hiram Q. Fish. What’s your complaint, Mister? Whatever it is, make it fast. We’re trying to get the evening edition out.

Dana tried to force a smile. He rejected the idea of sticking out his hand. I’m Dana Reynolds, Mr Fish. You will recall I wrote you from Frisco? I had a letter from you last week – you said you could hire me on as reporter.

For a moment Fish gave him a blank stare, causing Dana a brief terror that he might have indeed forgotten, or changed his mind. Then Fish straightened. Oh, yes, I remember. Well, we could use another man. Better come with me to my office. He turned to the other man at the desk. That will have to do, Jenkins. Go ahead and send that to the press. He turned away toward a side door; Dana followed.

The closed office door barely muffled the noise beyond. When the two men were seated, Fish offered a cigar, which Dana politely refused.

I hear you had a spot of trouble over in the City.

Dana swallowed, wishing now he’d stopped for a drink. That I did, sir. The Chief of Police didn’t care much for some of the stuff I wrote about. Neither did the Mayor. So I was let go. That is, I wasn’t fired, but they suggested I might take a leave of absence for my health. You might say that’s what I’m doing now.

Fish leaned back in his chair. Do you plan to go back when the heat’s off?

Dana frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. At least he hadn’t thought of being asked that question. Nor, indeed, had he thought about going back, or even wondered if the heat would ever be off. After a long pause he said: "No, sir. I’m in Nevada now. I want to stay here and make the News the greatest paper in the country." He surprised himself by the sincerity of his own voice. It occurred to him that he might actually mean it.

Now Fish leaned forward as if to get a closer look. You’ll forgive me, but you appear a bit down at the heels. Where are you staying in town?

Dana gave a start at the sudden change of subject. Nowhere yet, sir.

Fish scribbled something on a slip of paper and passed it across. You go to this address. You’ll see Mrs Mulhaney. Five dollars a week for room and board. You can tell her I’m paying your first week as advance on your salary. I’m assuming you can start work tomorrow.

Dana grinned and took a deep breath. Absolutely, sir. I’ll be here at six a.m. sharp. Do you have an assignment for me?

As a matter of fact I do. That’s one reason I need a new man. I’ll introduce you to my other two reporters in the morning. Neither of them wanted this job.

Oh? And what sort of job would that be, sir?

Fish grinned again. It’s about trouble, Mr Reynolds. Indian trouble, that is.

Bryan Fergus poured himself a second whisky. Sure you won’t have one?

Dana licked his dry lips. No thanks. I took the Pledge.

Fergus shrugged, downed his shot, then put the bottle away under the bed where he kept it. How do you like Mrs Mulhaney’s place so far?

Dana glanced around Fergus’s somewhat seedy room. At least it looked clean, if run down. I guess it will pass muster. I’ve seen worse places.

The food ain’t fancy, but there’s all you can eat. I hear you just blew into town today?

Mrs Mulhaney had introduced the two, Fergus being another reporter for the News.

In fact, an hour and a half ago. I’m looking forward to dinner, whatever it may be.

Fergus laughed. This being Tuesday, it will be corned beef and potatoes. Personally I like the chicken on Sunday. I hope you’ll still be around then.

Why wouldn’t I?

Now Fergus put on a serious frown. I figure when you find out more about this assignment Mr Fish has put you on to, you might decide to light on out of town. I hear they’re hiring down at the Locust Mine. That’s safer and pays better.

Dana tried to settle in to the hard wooden chair he was sitting on. It’s that bad, is it? He wondered if Fergus was trying to give him a verbal hazing, to see how easy he’d scare.

"Why do you think Fish had to take on a new man? He couldn’t find anyone else to send. Look here. Everybody knows the Territorial Enterprise is the main newspaper in these parts. The News don’t come anywheres near in competition. So Fish wants to run some stories that will make folks sit up and take notice. Maybe even scare them some. That’s the sort of stuff that sells papers."

And what kind of stuff are we talking about, then?

Fergus glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening. Indian stuff. A lot of people in town are getting nervous. They’s some strange goings on down by Greenfield and Schurz, and Walker Lake. War dances. Or maybe they’re just rain dances. Nobody seems to know. The Indians don’t talk much to white folks. But everybody around here is nervous about it.

Dana scratched his chin. He badly needed a shave. So what does Fish expect me to do? Go join a war dance?

Fergus didn’t smile. If possible. But I guess you could start by talking to some of the farmers around here. And hope you don’t end by getting scalped.

I thought the Paiute around here were mainly peaceable.

So far, you could say so. But then again ... Fergus picked up his whisky bottle, studied the label a moment, then put it back. Then again, what white man ever understood the Indians?

The dinner, as Fergus had predicted, was filling though not fancy. There was even a passable bread pudding for dessert. Without thinking, Dana rubbed his stomach afterward. It was the best meal he’d had in a couple of weeks. Mrs Mulhaney dined at the same table as her five boarders. She sipped her coffee and turned to Dana.

So how are you liking Virginia so far? She meant, of course, Virginia City. Nevada natives usually left off the City part.

So far I’m impressed, he said, thinking of the corned beef he’d just eaten. But of course I haven’t seen much of it yet.

Not that there’s that much to see.

Fergus said: Mr Reynolds has been put on to that assignment I told you about. The one I wouldn’t touch.

A tiny wrinkle appeared between the lady’s eyebrows. Oh, the Paiute. I been hearing some strange things about that goings on. Some new preacher they got is what I hear. You’ll be wanting to talk to Mr Joshua Hughes, I wager.

Dana’s reporter instinct awakened. It occurred to him Mrs Mulhaney might be a good source of leads. Probably even better than Fergus. Mr Hughes? Whom might that be?

She made a sour face. Indian agent. I mean, he’s head of the Department of Indian Affairs for this region. You’ll find his office downtown. From what I hear, most of the Paiute around here truly hate him.

Ah. You talk to Indians yourself?

Only the ones who talk English. I have a couple working for me, doing laundry and cleaning and such. You’ll be wanting a translator, I expect.

I expect so. You mentioned a new preacher? What would he be, Mormon or Presbyterian?

She flashed a smile. Neither. He’s Paiute. Name of Jack Wilson. In their lingo they call him Wovoka. That means the Woodcutter.

In the morning early he reported to Hiram Fish for more instructions, which he did not get. Actually, he’d thought of asking for a small salary advance, but Fish’s demeanor discouraged him. He told Dana: "You’re the reporter. It’s your job to get the leads, not mine. Get out there in the street and come back with some copy, something I can print. Something people will care if I print or not."

Dana got the idea. He didn’t bring up the subject of expenses, let alone advances. Fish did tell him how to find the office of the Indian agent. Getting a note book and some pencils out of the supply cabinet, he headed out.

Walking through town, it occurred to him that he had never in his life actually spoken to an Indian. He saw a few in the streets of Virginia, either idling on corners or on their way to somewhere.

Damn. I don't ever recall seeing Indians in San Francisco.

There might have been some, but if so they didn’t dress like natives. He wouldn’t know a Paiute from a Mexican, or from a Turk for that matter.

He was about to turn in to Mr Hughes’s office, when a rough fellow stopped him. Be you Reynolds?

Dana brought up short. The man was built like an ox, wide and solid, half his face hidden by a wiry black beard. He looked the sort who could straighten horseshoes with his bare hands. Dana wondered if he ought to run away. That’s my name, sir. Is there some problem?

I wouldn’t know. The man spoke with a slight European accent of some sort. They calls me Smoky. Your pal Fergus says as how I should talk to you.

Oh, I see. And why did he tell you that, sir?

Well, he thinks as maybe you might need a translator who talks Indian.

True enough. You speak Paiute, then?

That I do. I’m a teamster by trade, you see. I travels all over Nevada and California and sometimes other parts. No respectable white woman would look at me, so I married me a Paiute lady. Or as they calls themselves around here, Numu. We got two kids so far. Smoky’s beard split into a wide grin. Some fellas call me squaw man, but that’s okay long as they don’t call me that to my face. Anyhow, I talks the lingo pretty good by now. Good as English, you bet.

Dana thought of remarking he hoped the man’s Paiute was better than his English, but held his peace. Well, sir – Smoky – Fergus is right, I could do with a translator. But I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay you just yet.

Smoky shrugged. I’ll take on the job on spek-lation, as they say. You just let me know when I’ll be needed. You’ll find me down at the Gold Spike, or let Fergus know. With that he turned and walked away.

Dana scratched his head. He wanted to ask the man some questions, but guessed that would have to wait. Turning, he mounted the stairs to Mr Hughes’s office.

The place looked a bit on the shabby side; wallpaper was peeling in a few spots, and furniture in the waiting room looked well used. The secretary was a balding fellow wearing an eyeshade.

And your business being? the man asked when Dana asked to see Mr Hughes. Dana decided to try telling the truth. Sometimes that worked when he couldn’t think of a better lie.

I’m a reporter, he said. "Name's Reynolds. I’ve