Under the Desert Sun

By Jackie Walton

The silver mining town of Pioche, Nevada made the nastiest of the Wild West towns look tame. Jessica called it home. Then Wood came to town. Day by day, Wood changed from a disreputable vagrant to a magnetic, enigmatic man. He was there to solve a Federal case. The more he looked, the more dangerous the problems grew. His most frustrating and fascinating problem was her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jackie Walton
• Release date: Aug 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005437978

Jackie Walton

After growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area and marrying my high school sweetheart, we became what Alvin Toffler called "corporate gypsies." We've lived in a number of states and countries, including Italy, and have visited a lot of places, some of which show up in my stories. I'm a retired high school science teacher with degrees in English and psychology. (Those two and $4 will get you a good cup of coffee!) I've always loved history, though, as you might guess from the last chapter of my books. That's what happens when you mix a teacher with a self-professed history geek. We are once again back in the Bay Area with our long, tall Pole of a dog.

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Under the Desert Sun

Jackie Walton

Published by Jackie Walton at Smashwords

Copyright 2020 Jackie Walton

Other titles by Jackie Walton

Scamp’s Lady

Unsuitable Occupation for a Lady

Lies and Promises

Lady of the Joined Moons

Stay

Smashwords Edition, License notes

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Pioche, Nevada, 1870

Chapter 1

Daniel David Seaborne, known as DD or Mister Seaborne, depending on your perceived social status, walked through the dark streets, pulling his coat closer. Nights in Pioche, Nevada could get mighty cold, he thought, not for the first time. Damn, he loved the hot, dry days so different from the hot, muggy South where he grew up. During the nights, however, he froze his ass off here.

Jesus H. Christ, he sometimes really missed his plantation in Mississippi. When he had an itch to scratch, he didn’t need to go out to the whorehouse and pay for a woman. All he needed to do was call one of the slaves; He particularly favored Fancy (Boy, was she ever.), but Lulu made for a nice change of pace. They’d say, Yes, Master, and do whatever he wanted.

Well, at least here he could have his choice of coffee or cream.

He wandered past his prosperous dry goods store on Main Street, just down the street and around the corner from the new court house Pioche was building on Lacour Street. Since being named the Lincoln County seat a few years ago, the civic fathers decided they needed a fancy new court house to showcase their triumph in stealing the seat from the nearby town of Hiko. Stealing, he snorted, hell no. It was bought and paid for in cold, hard (snicker, snicker) cash.

More people besides miners would flood into Pioche, and his investments in land would pay off big time. He’d been rich and then poor and now on his way to being rich again. Poor sucked.

He might even think about getting himself a black bitch, sorta like the mayor…

A figure slid out from a shadow of the nearby building. DD turned his head. Something about that face triggered a memory. He opened his mouth. No sound came out.

It’s hard to talk when your throat’s cut.

Chapter 2

Judge Horace Matthews’s office looked just like a judge’s chambers should look. Jonathan Ravenswood, U.S. Marshal, sprawled comfortably in a leather chair alongside the judge’s even more elaborately tooled one. They both sipped the judge’s fine brandy from balloon glasses and contemplated the fire that took the chill off the Carson City, Nevada night. Dark wood paneling broke up the forest of law books lining the chamber. A hint of Cuban cigars, selected from the silver humidor, filled the air, even though they’d opened the window in homage to Mrs. Matthews’s hearty dislike of the smell.

Ravenswood had known Judge Matthews since their days in the Federal Army when he’d addressed the judge as colonel. Sometimes the judge forgot and still addressed him as captain. The judge might be short, round, and have a face like an aging cherub, but Ravenswood knew he was tough as horseshoes.

Whenever Ravenswood was in town, he met up with the judge, even if it was just for drinks. They’d already done that this time, in town. What did the old dog want that couldn’t be discussed in the judge’s chambers at the courthouse?

Well, he might as well enjoy the whiskey. The old man would get to it soon enough.

A few more sips elicited some more reminiscences of comrades, alive and dead. The conversation lagged, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. Rather, it was the quiet of two old friends enjoying each other’s company without the necessity of words.

Judge Matthews blew out a plume of smoke. You know Ravenswood, Mrs. Matthews says you need a wife. The judge studied his young friend over the smoldering tip of his cigar. Much as he’d hate to lose his lone wolf’s services as a marshal, damn, but he knew his wife was right. Ravenswood had spent too much time alone, stripped of family ties, first by the actions of others and then by his own choices.

A smoke ring blossomed from the mouth that Mrs. Mathews said didn’t smile enough. His beloved may not be the most elegant or worldly of women, but when it came to sizing up her fellow man, she was brilliant. Years ago, she’d taken one look at the high cheekbones, black hair and ice-blue eyes and declared that he was so very lonely. Knowing some of the history behind Jonathan Ravenswood, he agreed.

A long face that looked caved from Sierra Nevadan granite, though still young and handsome, held eyes that made you think him older than those mountains, despite his 30 years.

A snicker grew into a belly laugh. A wife? Now, why would I want a wife? A familiar, wicked grin spread over his face. Horace Matthews knew it well. I’m having too much fun for anything like that. He blew out a ring of smoke and tilted the cigar up to examine it. Damn, this is good.

Why do you just mooch off me? Get your own.

Nah, get too used to the soft life.

Can’t let you get soft, now can we?

Another few puffs and the judge got to the point.

I’m sending you to Pioche.

Pioche? Me and the 6th Cavalry?

No, just you.

Thanks so much. Sarcasm dripped through Ravenswood’s teeth. I’m not quite up to the labors of Hercules.

Ravenswood’s next donut matched the judge’s puff of smoke.

Damn you, I’ve been trying to do that for damn near fifty years. How the hell do you do it? I’ve never been able to.

It’s one of the few useful things I learned at my grandfather’s knee, sanctimonious bastard that he is.

The judge ignored the attitude. U.S. Marshals, holders of the six-sided tin star, went where he sent them, just like captains used to. There are several things that need cleaning up down there.

Only several? You think I can clean out that cesspool single-handedly?

The judge nodded. That’s why I’m sending you.

Sometime later, Matthews looked at his friend. Besides the usual graft and corruption, I hear tell that new courthouse they’ve built has become a gold mine for somebody. From what I gather, some of the offices make mine look like the local slum. The charges for some of the supplies are outrageous. Contracts go to the highest bidder. The judge shook his head in disgust.

See if you can find anything. Mathews flicked ash off his cigar. I know they are pulling in straw bail for even the most major of crimes.

Straw bail? Oh yes, kill a man, pay a fine, and walk out free as a bird.

Hum. Two thousand dollars for a man’s life.

Not bad. Ravenswood blew a smoke ring.

No. The miners get $4 a day in somebody else’s mine, and the mine guards get $20 to $50.

I think I’m in the wrong business.

The judge glared at him, but Ravenswood’s face was as bland as ever, except for the small twinkle in his eye.

The point is, Matthews continued repressively, that the city only has a dozen or so paid staff. That money is going down some rabbit hole, and I’d like to find out which one.

Send an accountant out.

If that was the only problem, I would. But I digress. My main concern is counterfeiting. I met the Comptroller of the Currency for the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, Hiland Hulburd, before the war. He’s a good man. He asked for some help investigating the increase in fake bills they’re seeing in the state.

Ravenswood sat up and leaned forward.

After laying out the problem and the evidence, Judge Matthews asked, How are you going to approach that ungodly stew?

Damned if I know. I’ll probably just go in and look around for a while. He blew another smoke ring before he stubbed out his cigar.

While you’re there, I have another little job for you.

Ravenswood eyebrow flew halfway up his forehead. Yeah, little.

The judge ignored him. There’s someone there I’d like you to keep an eye on. Make sure she’s safe.

She?

Jessica’s the daughter of an old friend of ours from Chicago. She inherited her father’s store and…

This wouldn’t happen to be part of your and Mrs. Matthews’s schemes, would it?

Schemes? Me?

Chapter 3

To Wood’s eyes, as he sat on the boardwalk with his back to the store front, the cowboy looked like he was going to church, either for a wedding or a funeral. Cleaned, pressed, shaved, and shined, the man greeted the proprietor of Seaborne’s Dry Goods Store who must have been standing just inside the open door that took advantage of the mild, early spring breeze. Pioche didn’t have as extreme a climate as some of Nevada, but the breeze was nice.

A mining town, the hub of the silver mines exploding out of the mountains in back of it, Pioche grew like an unpruned rose bush: all over the place. The eponymous main street of the town ran straight up the hill from the major road in the region before it kinked at the final stretch up to the mines that started half-way up the hill. Mines covered Treasure Hill at the top of Main Street and well into the hills in back of it.

Businesses flourished on and around Main Street, ranging from the mundane to the bawdy. Houses grew like weeds on the side of the hill and below that area.

City fathers made an attempt to polish the town’s image with a series of trees planted at intervals along Main Street. Acacia, paloverde, desert willow, desert ironwood, and pinyon pines dotted the sides of the street, each surrounded by a white picket fence. Wood figured it wasn’t San Francisco, but it wasn’t the back of beyond.

Good day to you, Miz Jessie.

And to you, Mr. Holt Jessica Lorimer replied.

She was a good-looking woman, Wood acknowledged, a little tall and slender for his tastes that generally ran to petite and curvy, nevertheless, a mighty handsome woman with big green eyes set in a porcelain-skin face. Her dark hair pulled up in some sort of a twist that only another woman could describe. She moved with the kind of grace that caught a man’s eye.

"Miz Jessie, you sure do look fine this morning.

May I speak to you about a personal matter? She must have given permission because he continued. "I don’t flatter myself that my ranch is doing well. I take care of my own.

I think you’re a fine-looking woman, and I know you’re a hard worker. He hesitated and then plunged on, Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife? I promise to take care of you for the rest of my days.

She hesitated, looking down. He was a good man; she didn’t want to hurt him. Neither did she want to marry him. Mr. Holt, I am honored by your proposal, truly I am. As you know I’m a widow.

Yes, ma’am.

I don’t wish to replace my late husband with anyone, even someone as agreeable as you. Thank you, but I’m sorry.

So am I, ma’am. Good day to you.

The rancher plopped his wide-brimmed hat on his head as he left the store, his boot heels thumping on the boardwalk down the street to disappear into a nearby saloon.

This store that Wood had chosen as his observation point, right near the intersection of Main and Meadow Valley streets was pretty much in the center of town. Meadow Valley had lots of commerce, especially saloons and brothels. Main was more general commercial, witness Seaborne’s Dry Goods, the dressmaker next door, Wells Fargo across the street, and Felsenthal’s Mercantile diagonally across the intersection. The more expensive houses lined Cedar and Connor streets radiating across the hillside from just above him. They looked out over the wide valley from just under Treasure Hill, the site of the major mines in the area, most notable the Raymond and Ely, Pioche, and Hermes. The grandest of the grand houses belonged to the mayor, a man, Wood was learning, who had fingers in a great many pies. The legality of some of those pies was questionable. Sounded like a man Wood would like to cultivate.

First, he needed a little more respectable way to use his time than holding up the front of Seaborne’s.

Jessica Lorimer grabbed the broom out of the corner near the door and went out to sweep the boardwalk outside her dry goods store. It was a pedestrian task, but she enjoyed it. For one, it got her outside, shaded outside, an important consideration this time of day. Nevada sun could be brutal, even in later winter. It could also be finger-freezing cold. Today was cool but comfortable, and the task was enjoyable. She didn’t need to stand out here, but it was much more interesting than doing the end-of-the-month billing totals for her customers.

She wasn’t the only person with business, real or imaginary, near the intersection of Meadow Valley and Main. Most crowded around the Wells Fargo office, waiting for the bi-weekly stage from Hamilton, with its train station, to arrive any minute (at least that is what the schedule said): another reason for being outside. Interesting things came off and went on the stage. She had some items on order.

Starting at one end of the property, she swept the accumulated dirt and mud back out to the street where it belonged, not that it would stay there.

Excuse me, sir, I’d like to sweep that area. The bearded vagrant, Wood he called himself, hunched a few feet from the doorway. Seems he’d come to town a week or so ago. She suspected he wasn’t fit for mine work and would mosey out in a couple of weeks. He was dirty, unkempt, and smelled like beer and worse. In the afternoon he would move to the other side of the street. Twice a day he would limp over to the telegraph office and deliver messages to earn some coin. In the meantime, he was harmless.

The man looked up from his squatter’s spot on the boardwalk where he reclined against the front wall of the store. Generally, he didn’t bother anybody, so she didn’t bother him. He braced his cane and heaved himself up. Certainly, ma’am. Like the few times she’d heard him speak his voice sounded like he had a speech defect. Poor man. Limping and leaning heavily on his cane, he moved down toward Bethany’s shop next door and leaned against one of the uprights supporting the sun shade over the boardwalk.

She considered him briefly as she resumed her task. A scruffy, greyish-black beard covered much of his face; the wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his eyes hid the rest. About all she could see was a blade of a nose and cheekbones that could cut a tough steak.

The funny thing was, Jessica didn’t think he looked old or broken down. His hands looked strong and something about the way he moved, limp notwithstanding, spoke of a vigorous man. His words, not that he’d said many, seemed educated.

Bethany Adams and Mrs. Dickson, the wife of the mayor, came out of the Bethany’s dressmaking shop next door just as Jessica finished sweeping in front of it. A maid carried a muslin-covered dress as she trailed the mayor’s wife.

Bethany had been Jessica’s ward since the girl’s father landed in prison several years ago. Now, at 18, she was a lovely young lady with curly, brown hair; heavy lidded eyes; and a sweet expression. She managed the shop, designing the garments and putting her own special flair of good taste on each item.

Jessica blessed Bethany’s ability; she, herself, could barely sew on a button.

I’m sure I’m going to love the lace on the bustle. I just know I was right to put it on, Mrs. Dickson gushed. Her bushy brows rose and fell with her excitement.

Lace on a bustle, Jessica thought. Good heavens, what was the fashion world coming to? The woman’s heart-shaped face gave her a deceptively delicate look. It said nothing for the woman’s fashion sense.

Mrs. Dickson continued in a torrent of words, "I simply must see the new Worth’s pattern book, but I can’t take the time right now. I do hope it arrives today, but I must get this dress home before it gets mussed. Agnes, mind the hem. I want it perfect for opening of Brown’s Theater tomorrow.

"Pygmalion and Galatea! Such a wonderful comedy to open the theater. And the next day they will do The Fortunes of a Poor Young Man. How delightful this week will be! I am so excited, and I want everything to be perfect.

I just can’t wait for the stagecoach, though. However, I must be the first to see the newest styles. I’ll be here when you open tomorrow, Miss Bethany. I have some delightful silk in that new color, mauve. I want made up in the latest style.

Jessica winced at the thought of mauve anything on the short, stout woman with dirt brown hair and a tendency to sallow skin. Her thoughts didn’t interfere with the verbal flash flood.

Worth is such a talented designer. He seems to have a heavenly sense of what the fashionable woman wants in a gown. And you, Miss Bethany, do such a wonderful rendering of his designs.

The maid bobbled her hold on the gown, catching her mistress’s eye. Clumsy twit. She turned back to Bethany. Oh, but I must get this lovely gown home before Agnes drops it in the dust. Until tomorrow, my dear. She nodded graciously to Jessica and sailed off across the street to go her house around the corner of fashionable Cedar Road.

Bethany looked at her guardian. I saw you wince at the lace. I couldn’t talk her out of it. Hopefully, she’ll bring it back to have the lace quietly removed. I doubt it, though.

Phew, Jessica blew out as she swept the boardwalk in front of Bethany’s store. After all, it was actually her store that Bethany managed with the help of two Chinese seamstresses who ran the new treadle sewing machines and did most of the plain sewing. I’d forgotten how much that woman can talk, and with scarcely a breath between sentences. Well, the body forgets pain, I suppose.

Bethany snickered and glanced down the street. The stage is here.

Wood knew she’d make him move the moment she came out with that damned broom. Fuck! He hated getting up and down with this cane and a supposedly gimpy leg. The rock in his shoe gave him a limp and the rock in his mouth changed his speech. Combined, they made him think he had rocks in his head. As a disguise, they left something to be desired. But there was no help for it.

She’d probably sweep him into the street if he didn’t move.

The upright made a good place to lean with all his weight on his good leg like a one-legged chicken. He still had a good view of the crowd gathering around the Wells Fargo office waiting for the stage. Joe Booker lounged against the wall of Rawl’s Saloon next to the bank. Miguel Contreras walked up Main Street from the boarding house. Mick McElhenny was probably around the corner with the horses, ready to bring them around.

His own horse was saddled around the corner and ready to go.

The crowd grew by ones and twos. Doesn’t make keeping track of those desperados any easier, he thought. They had a reputation for hitting the out-bound stage with its load of silver destined for the Carson City mint, but so far, no one had been able to catch them at it. Wood was going to track them and change that.

The stage arrived to much noise and dust and confusion, stopping just below the desert willow tree just down the street. He saw the new District Attorney, come all the way from Illinois, step out of it. Wood narrowed his eyes and tipped his hat down further. He recognized the newcomer. Damn, just what he needed, a familiar face. The man held up his hand to the coach to assist a young lady, travel-worn, but definitely fashionable, down.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McElhenny sidle up to the corner leading three horses. Yep, they were going for it, aiming to get the currency sent out by the mint instead of the silver this time, and right in the middle of town, no less. Stupid.

Just as the thought came and went, Wood saw Deputy Wilber Oldfield come striding down the street. Thin, almost to the point of emaciation, something about his carriage spelled trouble. The man’s hand went for his gun. Damn fool! There were dozens of people around.

Contreras! Booker! Oldfield glanced to the side, McElhenny! Get your asses out here! You’re coming with me!

Contreras and Booker charged out into the street; guns drawn.

Fuck you! Booker screamed.

Get him! Contreras bawled.

The Mexican fired the first shot, missing the deputy and hitting the upright just down from Wood.

He barreled across the boardwalk to ram into Mrs. Lorimer and Miss Bethany, sending them both to the ground in a madhouse of skirts and yelps. He swallowed quickly. Stay down! he ordered, his body a barricade against the multiple gunshots. Screams and curses flew through the air. People scattered or dropped to the ground. Wood levered up to pull a pistol out from the back holster under his vest. He fired at the Mexican, a killing shot. Then he dropped and yanked a struggling Mrs. Lorimer back under him.

When the shooting stopped, he risked a glance at the street. Oldfield held his bloody thigh; the three would-be robbers lay dead in the dusty street.

The District Attorney peeked around the stage as the driver struggled to control the panicked horses. Others slowly refilled the streets. Several went to Oldfield’s assistance.