Longarm and the Comstock Lode Killers by Tabor Evans

Author:Tabor Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Chapter 12

Longarm checked out of the Regis Hotel the next morning. He wasn’t feeling in tip-top shape, but he’d do all right unless forced into a hard fistfight. Dr. Eddy had told him that, unless he did something really stupid and strenuous, the wound was not likely to tear open and start hemorrhaging.

The Virginia City & Gold Hill Stagecoach Line charged two dollars a head to take a passenger up to the Comstock, which was located about thirty miles to the southeast and clung to the slopes of barren Sun Mountain. Longarm was dismayed to discover that the eight A.M. coach was sold out and that he’d have to wait for a second coach that did not depart Reno for two more hours.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee.”

“Me neither,” a middle-aged gentleman said, overhearing Longarm. “I expect we ought to get tickets right now or we might even lose our seats on the next stage up to the Comstock Lode.”

“Good idea,” Longarm agreed, following the man to the ticket counter.

“Good morning, Mr. Hammond,” the ticket agent said with a toothy grin. “Going up the mountain again today on business?”

“Yes,” Hammond said, removing and polishing his thick gold-rimmed spectacles. “Our bank has to make a decision today on the purchase of a new mining stock being issued.”

“I hope it’s a good ’un,” the agent said.

“You never know. I’ll be meeting with our geologist and assayer to make the final determination. Probably have to stay up there for three or four days. I’d rather be here in Reno where there is considerable more civility.”

“Yeah,” the ticket agent said, taking the banker’s payment and issuing a ticket. “I hear it’s still pretty wild and woolly up there.”

“That,” Hammond replied, “is a nice way of phrasing it.”

Longarm was next and he bought his ticket. That done, he saw the banker head up the street, probably to wait in his office until the next stage departed.

Longarm had nowhere to wait but he was allowed to check in his small baggage, so he walked back down Virginia Street to the bridge. Same retired minister was there fretting and fussing over what he considered the lewd behavior of the Truckee River ducks.

Not interested in striking up another conversation with the man, Longarm crossed the bridge and went down to the riverbank where he sat under a tree and watched the water flow. The Truckee, he knew, originated from Lake Tahoe, one of the deepest and most beautiful mountain lakes Longarm had ever visited. It was high and cool up there in the tall Ponderosa Pines, and Longarm would have liked nothing better than to have taken the Union Pacific on up into the Sierras and rested for a week or two and maybe caught some fish in Lake Tahoe. The fishing up there was exceptional, and because of the water’s famed clarity and coldness, the meat of fish from the lake was firm and tasty.

Longarm wandered around town for awhile and

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