Silver Dreams (34 page)

Determined to keep the situation from escalating, Elizabeth moved closer. She didn’t have to come to Max’s aid, however, because help came from an unexpected source...Ramona.

"Ross Sheridan,” she said, “you take back what you said to Max right now."

"Well it's true,” Max insisted. “He can't be doing this for the money. He's not in for a cut of the silver."

"Then cut him in!" Ramona ordered. "You know he's worked hard the whole way. He deserves it. After all he found the vein in the first place. Without Max we all might be sitting here swapping ghost stories instead of counting dollar bills."

A dreadful silence followed. Elizabeth prayed her brother would do the right thing. Deep down she believed he would. She still had faith in Ross even when no one else did.

Seconds that seemed like minutes passed before Ross finally said, "Maybe you've got a point. But he's not getting a whit more than I promised you, Ramona. Ten percent. And I suppose next Lizzie will hound me for a share as well."

Max laughed. "You are most generous, Mr. Sheridan," he said with the insincere graciousness of an employee who'd just been given a ham for Christmas when he'd been expecting a fat bonus. "In light of these new circumstances, I'll keep my hammer and you can keep your scepter."

Elizabeth sighed with relief when the clinking began once more. So Ramona was getting ten percent, and now, Elizabeth, herself might be granted a cut just as she’d hoped. She picked up a spare hammer and got to work. There would surely be enough fortune for all of them.

Chapter Eighteen

Dooley barely noticed the cold as he wandered away from the campsite. The lantern in his hand swung back and forth, casting shadows on the mountainside. He paid no mind to where the meager light shone. He didn't care where he was headed so long as it was away from the band of double-crossers he'd traveled up the mountain with. Ross was giving away parcels of his mine like they were slices of pie.

"It's a fine kettle of fish you've got yourself into this time, Dooley Blue," he grumbled. "Did a one of them downtown dunderheads so much as give the time of day to you? Did anyone say, 'What do you think of this, Dooley?' or 'Tell us your humble opinion on that, Dooley?’  Not on your life they didn't!"

He kicked a rock with the toe of his boot and sent it skidding down the mountain. "Not so much as the fare-thee-well I just give that rock did you get from any of them. It galls my blood to think of that city boy giving away what's rightfully mine."

He looked out over the blackness of the Rocky Mountain night while his anger boiled to the surface. “I'd like to have a pound of your flesh, Ross Sheridan.” Vivid images of exacting sweet revenge on his partner consumed Dooley and became almost more important than the silver...almost. "I've had my fill of the lot of you, and I aim to make sure you know it."

"Pssst, old timer!"

The startling sound prickled the hairs on Dooley's neck. What the devil? He wasn't alone? What manner of evil lurked on the mountain this night? He spun around a full circle and a half. The lantern slipped in his sweaty palm, and he nearly dropped it. "Who's there?" he croaked through a dry mouth.

"Over here, under the ledge."

Dooley peered through the night, squinting his eyes until he saw a hand at the edge of the lantern's glow. Fingers beckoned him toward another light several yards behind a black outline shaped like a human being. The source of the light was concealed by a sharp outcropping of rock, the entrance to a cave perhaps.

Dooley stood rooted to the ground as though his boots had been nailed there. "What do you want?"

"To be your friend, old man. Come closer."

A second shadowy figure, as large as the first, came into the light. Now there were two of them, and just one of Dooley. He considered his options. If he tried to return to camp, the men might attack him and throw him over. So he inched forward, toward their light, and entered a protected alcove cut into the side of the mountain.

Both figures were clad in heavy sheepskin jackets, making their bulk even more menacing. Whoever they were, they were to be taken seriously, and probably feared. Both had dark hair growing wild around their faces. Several days’ growth of beard hid the details of the second man-spirit's face entirely, but the one who had spoken to Dooley had a broad nose and full lips. His dark, olive complexion blended ominously with the night.

Dooley drew a shaky breath and squared his shoulders. So this was how it was to be, his worst nightmare had come to life. If he was to meet his death, then, by golly, he would do it like a man.

"You’re them, ain't ya'?" he croaked. "The tommyknockers...a little bigger than I thought you'd be, but what else could explain you on this mountain?” He swallowed, his throat scratchy with fear. “Do with me what you will, but if you have an ounce of goodness, know this...it wasn't my idea to bring them girls in the mine."

The second evil man-spirit stepped forward and nudged his companion. "What the hell's he talking about, Paulie?"

Dooley scrutinized his face and decided this knocker had an ugly mug, though he surely wouldn't tell it so. A ragged scar ran from the spirit's eyebrow to his temple. His face was puffy and flushed. He'd either been a drinker in life or he'd been somebody's punching bag. It was sad to think that in the hereafter, a poor soul didn't get any better looking than he'd been on earth.

"It's a crazy superstition, that's my guess," the one named Paulie answered. He shrugged his shoulders and stepped closer to Dooley. "What's the matter with you, old man? I'm Paulie and this is Nick. There’s nobody here called Tommy."

His voice was as unschooled as any scrapper's off the streets of Manhattan. Dooley approached within inches of the spirit's face and realized at once that he'd misjudged his strange mountain companions. They were flesh and blood, not haunts at all, and actually seemed no better than any of the ruffians who lived in the flats of Dooley's boarding house in off Broadway. And to think he'd been scared of these buggers.

"Well, if you ain't knockers, and you surely ain't, then what the blazes are you doing here and why the dickens did you sneak up on me?" he demanded.

"We're here to help you," Paulie said. "If you do what we tell you, you can get your mine back, at least a lot more than you've got now."

Dooley narrowed his eyes at Paulie. "Who are you anyway, and how is it you know what's going on with my mine?"

"Not counting the fact that you've been belly-aching about it for the last ten minutes, we've been following you since you left Manhattan."

"That's impossible. I'd have seen a pair of apes like you somewhere along the line."

"Not if we didn't want you to," Nick the punching bag said.

Fear warred with the bravado Dooley wanted to show these men. If what Paulie said was true, then it was possible they knew much more about the Fair Day than Dooley cared to think about. He'd have to tread carefully lest he give away valuable information.

"You don't know nothing," he said. "Sure, I was grumbling a bit, but it don't amount to anything. Truth is, that old mine ain't worth the powder it'd take to blow it to smithereens."

Paulie's eyes glittered like coals, and his fat lips drew into a ragged line. "Don't con us, old man. That would be a big mistake. You and your buddies down there have been dancing to a merry tune since that first gunshot was fired. We know what you found in that hole, and if the three of us sit down and talk nice for a while, we'll figure out what to do about it."

It occurred to Dooley that there were already entirely too many people figuring out what to do with
his
silver, and trusting one crook was as bad as trusting another. But since he didn't trust this pair not to toss him down the mountain, he decided to listen. "What exactly do you mean by 'talking nice'?"

"I mean that right now you're dividing your profits by five, and after we talk, I guarantee you'll cut that number by two." He jabbed a thick finger into Dooley's chest. "Don't pretend you have loyalties to those parasites down there. We both know you don't. Those people are out to swindle you blind. Now me and Nickie, all we want to do is help you out of a bad situation. If we make a little money in so doing, all the better. The real winner, Dooley, will be you."

 Dooley figured it was high time he watched out for number one, and if Paulie and Nick could help him do that, he'd listen sure enough. He had no qualms about double-crossing Ross Sheridan since the low-down traitor had just double-crossed him by giving away chunks of the Fair Day Mine.Soon enough he’d be parceling out Dooley’s half

"I'll hear you out," he said. "But mind you, I'm no pushover. I make up my own mind as I see fit."

The three men settled around the campfire, and Paulie took a bottle from a leather pouch. He uncorked it and handed Dooley a tin cup. "Now then, Dooley, my friend, can we start off negotiations with a little toast of good faith?"

The three cups came together over the fire with a metallic clink, and Paulie smiled. "To what's fair, Mr. Blue...and to a speedy end to what's not."

Fifteen minutes later Dooley was still trying to make sense of what Paulie told him. Surely his facts about Ross Sheridan couldn't be true. Had Ross really borrowed money from a Manhattan tough and pulled the wool over everyone's eyes? And yet, this fella Paulie seemed to know what a weasel Ross was. But Dooley still didn't want to believe him, for if one puts his trust in a deceiver, then who's the greater fool? Dooley didn't like looking like a fool.

For days now, Ross had held his money over Dooley's head like he was a big shot, making Dooley beg for every scrap he gave out. And all the time Ross only had that money because he'd made a pact with the devil and then lied and cheated his way to Colorado. Dooley'd never hated another human being in his life as much as he hated Ross Sheridan at that moment.

There was a fire burning inside him that was brighter and hotter than the one at his feet. It was the fire of anger and determination. He was ready to listen to whatever plan the crafty fellow across from him had in mind.

"What is it exactly that you’re proposing to do, Paulie?" he asked.

"We're going to get the mine back for you, but you've got to level with us about one thing.” Paulie’s eyes narrowed. “How good a strike have you found in there?"

"The purtiest vein of silver I ever laid eyes on or ever heard about for that matter."

"What's it worth in dollars and cents?"

Dooley rubbed his chin and stared at the roof of the cave. "Based on my considerable experience, I'd say that ore will come in at ten thousand dollars to the ton. Gentlemen, that's a fine strike."