Boots and Bandits by Margaret P

(With thanks to my beta, Terri Derr) (2020—Words: 2,540)

Chapter One

"What the hell is that?" Johnny clamped his hands over his ears as the cart came up over the rise and began trundling downhill towards Austin, Nevada.

The coal merchant laughed and spat tobacco juice onto frosted dirt at the side of the road. "The stamper machines. Them that pound the quartz to get the silver."

God help him. No wonder the driver of the explosive's wagon had been hard of hearing. Mitch had said he was born and bred in Austin. It was a miracle he wasn't deaf as a post.

Johnny glanced over his shoulder as they passed a straggle of moulting ash trees. Strange how there'd been no more than a dull thud until they'd reached the ridge. He'd thought the thumping had come from machines deep down in the mineshafts or maybe in the outbuildings on the surface, but the noise was coming from the town in the next valley instead.

"There's eleven in Austin now—eleven stampers, two general stores, twenty three saloons, four churches and a brand new city hall and jailhouse. Hell, Madrid, you should bust a few heads; the jailhouse might be more comfortable than the hotel." The coal merchant nodded towards a three-storey clapboard building and cackled at his own joke.

"You could be right." Johnny squinted up at the rusted tin roof as the cart drew up by the porch steps. The copper spouting was dented and leaking. Shards of ice glinted in the late afternoon sun. Paint peeled from the walls and the words 'Grand Hotel' written above the porch looked anything but grand. "Is this it?"

"Yep. No call for more than one hotel. Folks don't come here for the salubrious weather."

"What about the saloons?" Johnny blew into his hands. Shit, it was cold. Not a cloud in the sky either; the water troughs would be frozen by morning.

"Most of the entertainment houses around here need their rooms for other activities." The coal merchant adjusted the empty coal sack over his shoulders and grinned. "Besides, they charge by the hour, and they ain't much better."

Johnny jumped down. Shoot, the stampers even made the ground shake. "Thanks for the ride."

The coal merchant raised an arm in farewell and drove on towards his yard, past a saloon, an assayer's office, the bank, a half-painted church, one of the two general stores, and another saloon before disappearing around the bend in the road. The town spread out along the valley and up a gentle slope, a scattered mix of new and old, well-kept and sadly neglected; weather-worn timber and rusted iron oddly pretty against a pale blue sky and barren snow-dusted hills.

Taking a deep breath, Johnny turned back towards the hotel. He'd been sleeping rough for nearly a week and his limbs were crying out for a hot bath and a soft bed. It sure didn't look like he was going to get either here.

His low expectations sank lower when he went inside. He had to jiggle the knob to make the door stay shut. Nope, the best that could be said for this place was that its scrim walls and faded curtains deadened the sound of the stampers.

A balding clerk looked up and folded away his newspaper as Johnny approached the reception desk.

"How long does that hullabaloo go on for?" Johnny asked, dropping his bag on the floor and resting his rifle up against the desk.

"Six til six." Stifling a yawn, the clerk twisted around and grabbed a key from a board on the wall. "You hardly notice it once you've been here awhile." He tossed the key down on the hotel register. "Fifty cents a night, son. If you're lucky you'll only have to share with three others."

Johnny bristled. "I'm not your son, and I don't share."

The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Singles are a dollar a night up front. You got that?"

Johnny reached under his slicker and took out the money he'd earned riding shotgun on the dynamite wagon. Mighty good pay for five days work—a man's wage, not a boy's—and it was about time folks recognized him as a man. Hell, he'd scared off two sets of robbers without losing any cargo or blowing anything up. He knew for a fact not many guards had done that, because Mitch had told him so when they arrived at the mine.

They had made good time too. The mine manager had been so pleased he'd offered Johnny another run in the spring. Johnny had turned him down though. Sitting on a wagonload of dynamite was high risk, and there wasn't a lot he could do to reduce the danger—except pray. Mama hadn't given him much practise at praying.

Peeling ten dollars from the wad, he dropped the crisp new banknote down on the grubby oak desk. "You got change?"

Picking it up, the clerk checked both sides and pushed the hotel register forward. "Sign in."

Johnny scratched his name with a dip pen and stood back, hand resting on his Colt.

The clerk was staring, but he blinked and swung the heavy book around. Glancing down at the page, he looked up again sharply. "Madrid?"

"Yeah."

"Are you the young fella from Santa Fe? The one that outdrew a cardsharp a year or two back?"

"What if I am?" Johnny straightened.

"Now, don't go getting the wrong idea. I just heard you were hiring out down south."

"Who told you that?"

The clerk fumbled as he got a cash box out from under the counter. "A guy called Smith. Stayed here a few months ago. He said he shared a tent with you in a shooting match near Tucson."

Johnny relaxed some. "Yeah, that sounds about right. But the fracas fizzled out early summer."

"So he said, but he thought you'd gone into Mexico."

Johnny rubbed at the stubble on his chin. It was beginning to itch. He had ridden into Mexico or Nogales to be exact—more of a no-man's land—but then he'd gone east, north, west, south and east again. Hell, he done seven different jobs and almost come full circle since working with Bushrod Smith. "How come you were talking about me?"

"We were just passing the time. I'd been reading a dime novel about the day Sam Stringer gunned down Gentleman Joe Jessop, and I asked Smith if he'd ever met them."

"And had he?"

"Jessop, he had, but he reckoned you were faster. He reckoned when it came to real gunfighters it would be you or a cold-hearted killer named Pardee that Mr Beadle wrote about next."

Johnny smiled. If their paths crossed again, he'd have to thank Bushrod for boosting his reputation. Pardee—Day Pardee—now that was a name he'd heard a few times lately. Never met him, but odds were being in the same line they would meet one day. Only question was would they be on the same side? It was worth knowing what Bushrod thought of him either way. Bushrod wasn't no more than a ten dollar a day man himself, but he was a real good judge of skill and character. It was probably what kept him alive.

The clerk opened the cashbox. "How many nights you aiming to stay?"

"When is the next stage to Virginia City?"

"Leaves at seven in the morning if it don't snow."

The clerk could have stopped there. With those stampers going all day, Johnny wasn't planning on sticking around any longer than necessary, but he listened as the man gave a second option.

"Or there's the Salt Lake to Carson City mail coach. It goes through Austin every three days. Due about noon the day after tomorrow. Overnights at Desert Well. You'd have to go to Carson and catch the afternoon stage to Virginia City. The direct stage only goes once a week."

"I'll take a single room for tonight."

The clerk nodded, counted out Johnny's change, and handed him a different key. "Top floor."

"Thanks." Johnny picked up his gear and headed for the stairs.

Bang!

He spun around fast, wasting a bullet before a gust of wind and the boom of the stampers smacked him in the face.

"You need to get that door fixed," he growled, holstering his gun.

"Yes, sir." Pale-faced, the clerk passed Johnny with his back pressed to the edge of the hotel desk and hurried over to close the flapping door.

He wedged the door shut with a wooden doorstop and the noise from the stampers dropped to a muffled thumping again.

"Well, thank the Lord for that." A handsome straight-backed woman dressed in a dark blue woollen cape and fashionable bonnet descended the stairs as Johnny turned.

"Ma'am." He touched his hat and followed her with his eyes to the desk. She'd barely looked at him, but there was something about her that made the hairs on the back on his neck stand to attention. Maybe it was the neatness of her appearance in a town where nothing was neat, or her air of self-confidence; he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

The hotel clerk righted the brass spittoon, hit by the door and sent rolling towards the hat stand by Johnny's bullet. Then he returned to the desk to serve the lady. She smiled. Congratulating him for acting so quickly, she let her hand linger in his for a second longer than necessary as she handed back her room key for safe keeping. The man tugged at his starched collar and simpered like he thought he was in with a chance.

Amused, Johnny climbed the first flight of stairs, and the clerk escorted the woman to the door.

"Hey, Madrid."

"Yeah?" Johnny looked back down into the foyer from the landing.

The clerk stood at the bottom of the stairs. "If you want tomorrow's stage you'll have to buy your ticket today."

"Why's that?"

The clerk chuckled. "On account George Foster at the depot is fond of his liquor and the coach driver is doggone ornery. One won't open the depot much before nine, and the other won't take passengers without a ticket."

Shoot, this town got better by the minute.

Johnny waved his thanks and found his room on the third floor. Propping his rifle against the wall, he dumped the burlap bag with the rest of his gear on a wooden chair next to the bed and pushed down a window sash that had been left open. Within seconds a faint whiff of puke and soap tickled his nose, and he almost laughed. What the hell next?

Tossing his money down on the quilt, he rummaged in his bag for a needle and thread. Then he took off his slicker and jacket. Wrapping the spare blanket from the end of the bed around his shoulders, he slit a seam along the bottom edge of the jacket with his knife. Then he slipped a ten dollar bill into the lining and pushed it well down under the hem so the bulge couldn't be seen after the seam was re-sown. He stitched a second banknote under the inside band of his hat, and returned a third to his pocket with his room change. The remaining sixty dollars he stashed in his left boot. If there was one thing he'd learned from his stepfather, it was to keep his valuables close and spread around. A man could never be too careful.

The bed he was sitting on didn't seem too bad, all things considered—a slat base and a horse hair mattress. Could be worse. He lifted the quilt: three woollen blankets. A stoneware hot water bottle sat on the washstand. Likely there was a kettle for boiling water somewhere—probably downstairs. Johnny rotated cramp out of his arm and weighed the possibilities. He was tempted to fill the bottle and spend an hour under the blankets, but if the hotel clerk was right, he needed to buy his ticket for the morning stage before the office shut today.

Ignoring the aches, he got to his feet. Maybe he could find a bathhouse and soak the kinks out after he bought his ticket.

The sun had almost set when he got outside, but a kerosene lamp hung above the hotel steps and candle lamps flickered along the street to prevent him tripping over potholes. He found the stagecoach depot about two hundred yards down. It was just beyond the bend and about five hundred yards from where workmen went in and out of steam in lantern light.

A bell and a woman's laughter tinkled as he entered the depot. The lady in the dark blue cape was up at the counter. Johnny shut the pounding stampers out as quickly as he could and stayed a few feet back so she could complete her business in private.

"Well, I declare, Mr Foster, if you ain't the most charming man." The woman batted a gloved hand at the ticket clerk, and he responded with a silly smirk and a few words Johnny couldn't hear.

Johnny began to daydream: a barrel full of hot soapy water followed by a large juicy steak. Yes, sir, that would be mighty fine. He flexed his fingers, tingling from the warmth of the pot belly stove. It could take an hour soaking in a tub to loosen up his muscles, but with a shave and a clean shirt he might feel like a little socializing after supper.

The thought made him impatient, and he coughed to remind the middle-aged lovebirds he was still waiting.

"Oh my, I'm holding up the line. What to do? The noise—I really don't think I can bear it any longer. I know you say there is a risk, but I will take a ticket for the morning stage if you please, Mr Foster." The lady extracted notes from an embroidered purse and Foster issued her with a ticket in the same manner as the hotel clerk had accepted her key.

"I'm sure it will be fine and dandy, ma'am. Tom Beaufort rides shot gun and he knows his business. The bank will supply a guard and the assistant bank manager always goes along too."

"So I understand. Such a kind man: Mr Vincent. He has been very helpful to me during my short stay in Austin. And I really don't mind spending a night or two in Desert Well. At least it will be quiet, and the accommodations can't be any worse than the home stations between here and Topeka." She accepted her change with a slight bow and patted Johnny's arm as she passed. "All yours, young man."

Johnny stepped back to get the door for her. Talk about the cat that got the cream. Why was she so pleased with herself?

"Well, don't just stand there." The clerk glared at Johnny from behind the counter as soon as the door was shut. "Where do you want to go? It's closing time."

Was it?

At that moment the air and the floor stopped vibrating. The clock on the wall ticked three times and then chimed as it struck the hour.

Thank the Lord; it was six o'clock.

1. Austin, Nevada is a real silver boom town. See wiki/Austin,_Nevada and /towns/nevada/austin/