Bo just smiled.
The offices of the Argosy Mining Company were housed in a two-story building even more substantial-looking than the bank. For one thing, it was constructed of brick, one of several brick buildings that now stood along Deadwood’s Main Street and Sherman Street, the two principal thoroughfares. When the Texans had first visited the place, back in its mining camp days, Deadwood had consisted of tents, tarpaper shacks, and a few hastily thrown-together buildings of raw, splintery boards. The presence of brick buildings showed just how much it had changed, how respectable it had gotten.
But with the arrival of the Deadwood Devils, the same sort of wild lawlessness that had plagued the area back then had cropped up again. No wonder folks were upset. Nobody wanted to go back to the way things had been.
When Bo and Scratch went in, they found themselves in an outer office with a desk in front of a railing and two more desks behind it, along with a couple of doors. A man in a suit and a stiff collar sat at the desk with a number of papers in front of him. He looked up with an impatient glance at the Texans and said, “Yes? What can I do for you?”
“Is your boss around?” Bo asked.
The superior curl of the man’s lip came as no surprise. “If you’re looking for a job at the mine, you’ll have to ride out there and speak to the superintendent,” he said. “We don’t hire any laborers here.”
“We’re not looking to swing a pickax, sonny,” Bo said, keeping a tight rein on his temper. More and more, he and Scratch ran into these prissy, soft-handed types who would have been more at home back East somewhere, rather than out here on the frontier. But, as he had mentioned to Scratch as they were riding into Deadwood earlier, everybody had to be somewhere.
“Then what is your business with Mr. Nicholson?” the man wanted to know.
“He’s the owner of the Argosy Mining Company?”
“He’s the president,” the clerk replied with barely suppressed annoyance. “And he’s not accustomed to dealing with the likes of you.”
Scratch grinned, but it wasn’t a very pleasant expression as he leaned over the desk and placed his hands flat down. “You’re kind of a snippy little cuss, ain’t you?” he asked.
The clerk drew back and paled, although he already had such a pallor it was hard to be sure he lost even more color. He looked like he realized his arrogance might have gone too far.
But before he could say anything, the door to one of the inner offices behind him opened, and a man stepped out. He stopped short at the sight of Bo and Scratch and said in a loud, rumbling voice, “You two again!”
Bo and Scratch found themselves staring in surprise at the massive Reese Bardwell, who they had tangled with in the Red Top Café. Scratch straightened from his pose leaning over the frightened clerk’s desk and said softly, “Well, this is an interestin’ turn of events, ain’t it, Bo?”
“Take it easy,” Bo advised his old friend. “One ruckus a day with a fella ought to be enough.”
Bardwell stalked forward. “What are you doin’ here?” he demanded. “Did you follow me?”
“Mister, you’re just about the last hombre we expected to see in here,” Bo said. “We’re looking for the boss.” He glanced at the clerk. “Nicholson, right?”
“I’m Lawrence Nicholson,” a new voice said. A man who had come out of the office behind Bardwell stepped around him. Bardwell was so big Bo and Scratch hadn’t seen the other man until now. Dressed in a sober dark suit, he was around fifty, with a mild face, thinning gray hair, and deep-set dark eyes.
“Yes, sir, if you’re the president of the company, you’re the man we want to see,” Bo said. “It’s about that gold shipment of yours that got stolen today.”
Bardwell clenched his huge fists and started forward. “You two had something to do with that?” he said. “I might’ve known it!”
Nicholson put a hand on Bardwell’s arm to stop him. Bardwell was almost twice the other man’s size, but he stopped when Nicholson touched him.
“Take it easy, Reese. I hardly think these gentlemen would just waltz right in here like this if they’d had anything to do with the robbery.”
“That’s right,” Scratch said. “We ain’t loco. And we ain’t road agents, neither.”
“Then why are you here?”
Bo said, “We thought you might be offering a reward for tracking down the gang that’s been pulling these holdups.”
Bardwell made a face like he had just bitten into a rotten apple. “Bounty hunters,” he said.
Bo shook his head. “No, not really. We’re just a couple of fellas who are down on our luck and short on funds. But we’ve done quite a bit of tracking in our time, and we thought we might have some luck. That would help you out, Mr. Nicholson, and us, too, maybe.”
“Only if you could also find the gold that the Argosy lost today,” Nicholson said. “I’m as interested in that as I am in bringing the thieves to justice.”
“Likely they ain’t had a chance to spend any of it yet,” Scratch pointed out. “If they’ve been hittin’ as many shipments as we’ve heard about, they’ve probably got a whole passel of loot cached somewhere.”
“It’s the sheriff ’s job to track down those owlhoots,” Bardwell snapped.
“Yes, well, Henry Manning hasn’t done a very good job of that so far, has he?” Nicholson asked crisply. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and regarded Bo and Scratch intently. “I’ve got a good mind to take a chance on these men, Reese. You obviously know them, though, and if you’re opposed to the idea, I’ll bow to your judgment.”
Scratch gestured toward Bardwell with his left hand and asked, “Just who is this big galoot, anyway, for you to be askin’ his opinion?”
Nicholson smiled. “I got the impression you were already well acquainted with each other. Reese Bardwell is the chief engineer and superintendent of the Argosy mine.”
Bo and Scratch couldn’t stop the looks of surprise that appeared on their faces. After their encounter in the Red Top Café, Bo never would have pegged Bardwell as being smart enough to hold down such an important job. The big man looked barely intelligent enough to swing a sledgehammer or a pickax.
Bardwell seemed to enjoy their reaction. He sneered and said, “I’d be leery of hirin’ them if I was you, Mr. Nicholson. They jumped me while I was having lunch in Mrs. Pendleton’s café. That one in the fancy jacket attacked me, and the other one threatened me with a gun.”
“That’s terrible.” Nicholson sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. But I can’t go against the wishes of Mr. Bardwell in this matter. Maybe you can get the sheriff to sign you on as deputies. Sheriff Manning could use some competent help.”
“You’re sure?” Bo asked.
Nicholson shrugged again. “Sorry.”
A triumphant grin spread across Bardwell’s craggy face. The skinny clerk at the desk looked pleased, too. Bo felt a surge of anger but controlled it. Folks had a right to hire, or not hire, whoever they wanted to . . . even when they were wrong.
Bo’s natural courtesy prompted him to touch a finger to the brim of his black hat. “I reckon we’ll be going, then,” he said.
“But, Bo—” Scratch began.
“Come on. There’s nothing for us here.”
Bardwell laughed harshly. “That’s for damned sure.”
When they were back on the street, Scratch said, “Now what?”
“Now we see if the livery stable owner is willing to let us sleep in the hayloft for a little bit extra if we keep our horses there,” Bo said.
A few years earlier, sleeping space had been at a premium in Deadwood. The liveryman could have asked five dollars a night for the right to stretch out in the hay, and fortune-seekers eager to search for gold would have paid it gladly.