“I understand,” DeMourey said. “Would you lock the door for me? I doubt either of us wants visitors.” Then he poured the pan’s contents into its original sack and weighed up the next one.
One by one he went through the four sacks, tallying them, until he finished the last. Jim looked over DeMourey’s math. Limited as his reading and writing skills were, his mother had taught him sums and he didn’t see any obvious mistakes.
“Three thousand and twenty-seven dollars,” DeMourey announced for the final tally.
It was a good deal more than David and Ellen had expected. A full two thousand more.
“Unfortunately, I have a problem,” DeMourey said then. “I can pay you one thousand in cash, but I don’t have the rest here. Instead, you have two options: you can sell me one thousand dollars’ worth of gold and ride off with the balance, or you can take a banknote from me for the remainder. You may cash it at my bank in San Francisco.”
“Can we split those numbers?” Jim said.
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’ll take the thousand in cash, then your note for another thousand. The rest I’ll hang on to.”
“Fair enough,” DeMourey said. “Better not to be too trusting.”
The assayer filled out several forms; Jim signed two, then DeMourey counted out a stack of greenbacks and handed them over.
Jim counted them himself, and DeMourey seemed in no way offended.
“I am an honest man,” the assayer said. “I’m quite fair. Ask anyone and count that all you like.”
“My mother told me most people are honest, but to check up on them, anyway.”
“A wise woman,” DeMourey said. He opened a desk drawer and drew out a thin cigar. He lit the end with a candle.
Jim’s mother also said men claiming to be honest seldom were. Was DeMourey an exception?
“You seem like a decent young fellow, so I will tell you that you could do even better selling your gold in San Francisco.”
“Why is that?”
“I can’t pay you so much here because it costs me money to transport the gold from camp to my bank. I have to pay for a wagon, horses, guards. Even with that, there are risks involved. Risks that I have to protect myself against.”
“Risks?”
“The road is long and dangerous. There have been several robberies. Last week someone stole a shipment from the Shooting Star mine. They had guards, of course. All were killed. It was roughly the same amount you’re carrying.” DeMourey leaned back in his chair.
Jim wasn’t sure how to respond. Was DeMourey giving him a word of caution or trying to get him to hand over the rest of the gold? He couldn’t say for sure.
“I’ll take my chances,” Jim said.
DeMourey shrugged. He took a box from the desk and began putting the weights and measures inside it.
Jim stowed what was left of the gold back in the saddlebags. He put the cloth he’d purchased in as well. He tucked the cash into his boot and put the banknote into his pocket. Given what happened in the street, he didn’t want to carry all his money in one place. Then he stood and went to the door.
“Travel safe,” DeMourey said.
“Another time,” Jim answered, and gave the man a half smile. He opened the door and took in the street with a wary glance. No one looked to be waiting for him, but in a crowd so large, who could tell?
Hitching the saddlebags on his shoulder and keeping a hand on his pistol, he stepped out into the camp. Two thousand dollars richer; all he had to do now was get back home.
Chapter 9
Cord Bannen was sitting in on his eighth hand of poker when Dunlap and Red stepped in. He frowned at a pair of sixes. His mood was poor. He’d lost twenty dollars so far this morning and his current hand showed his luck had not improved.
“Three,” he said and discarded.
Dunlap leaned beside the bar, trying to catch his eye without appearing to, while Red bought himself a drink and stomped his way to the far end.
The man across from him dealt out three cards.
Picking them up, Cord glanced up long enough to meet Dunlap’s gaze, then looked to his cards. The pair of sixes, the ace of diamonds, a deuce, and a third six. He eyed the growing pot, then his competition. The miner to his right was little threat; the man had downed half a bottle of rye and squinted at his cards while swaying on his seat. To his left was the owner of a freight company. He’d been content to win small hands here and there, but never wagered much unless his cards were excellent.
Across from Cord, though. The man across from him was a professional gambler. He played well, bluffing rarely, bowing out when the cards weren’t in his favor, winning most of the larger hands, slowly fleecing the miner and freighter and—to a much lesser degree—Cord as well.
“Raise you ten,” the gambler said. He was a painfully lean man with eyes so deep and black they seemed to stare out of a skull’s empty sockets.
The freighter’s eyes shifted between Cord and the gambler. “I’m out,” he said with a tittering laugh. “Too rich for my blood.”
The miner tossed in a pair of bright yellow chips, grinned, then he leaned back in his chair. Groaning and creaking, the chair protested until the miner finally spilled over backward. He was out cold before he hit the ground. The cards spilled from his hand and Cord glanced at them, then back to the gambler.
Pair of threes, an eight, the king of spades, and jack of hearts.
Cord’s hand beat that. But did it beat whatever the gambler held?
Near the door, Dunlap shifted uncomfortably. His gaze shifted continually between Cord and something outside. He looked like he’d bust at any minute.
