“An expert engraver, was he?” Quincannon asked.
“Yes. He designed his own type face, among other things.”
“And you inherited his talent in that area?”
“No, not at all,” Coffin said. “I have limited abilities in the printing trade; three years of tramping from Kansas to Montana convinced me of that. Writing copy is a far better occupation than setting it, and a far more suitable one for me.”
“I bow to your knowledge of both fields. The only profession I know well, I’m afraid, is patent medicine.”
Coffin started to comb fingers through his hair, remembered in time that they were stained with ink, and wiped them on a press rag. He lit an already ink-smeared pipe. When he had it drawing he said, “What brings you here this morning, Mr. Lyons? No takers for your nerve and brain salts?”
“On the contrary. I’ve already sold six cases to Mr. Judson at the Harmony Drug Store.”
“A fruitful morning for you, then.”
“So far as business goes,” Quincannon said. “Privately, the news is much grimmer.”
“Yes, the murder of your friend Whistling Dixon.”
“Then you know about that.”
“Of course. News travels rapidly in Silver — and bad news reaches my door sooner than most. I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here setting type instead of out gathering information.”
“I am, yes.”
“I’ve owned the Volunteer three years and never missed a single Wednesday’s publication,” Coffin said. “It is a matter of pride with me. If I don’t spend the rest of today and most of tonight right here in the office, there will be no paper tomorrow.”
Quincannon asked, “But have you spoken to the marshal? Do you have any further details?”
“Is that why you’ve come, Mr. Lyons? Seeking information on Dixon’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I haven’t spoken to Marshal McClew yet and I expect I know nothing more about Dixon’s death than you. And I won’t until McClew comes to see me later today. He always does in such matters, just in time for me to write my story. He enjoys seeing his name in print.”
“I’ve heard that the Owyhees are a haven for outlaws,” Quincannon said. “Is murder common in Silver City?”
“Not uncommon, shall we say. And that is another reason I’m here and not out with McClew. Murder, unless it happens to be of the spectacular variety, has limited news value.”
“Yes — the shooting of a cowhand can hardly be called spectacular, can it.”
“Frankly, no. If that fact offends you, so be it.”
Coffin picked up a page proof he had already run off, scanned it, frowned, and then turned to one of the galleys. Quincannon watched him plug a dutchman in a poorly spaced ad, then asked, “Were you well acquainted with Dixon?”
“I barely knew him,” Coffin answered. “I spoke to him perhaps twice in the three years I’ve been in Silver.”
“Do you know of any friends he might have in town?”
“No.”
“Was he acquainted with Jason Elder?”
Coffin squinted at him through smoke from his pipe. “What makes you ask that?”
“Dixon was murdered and Elder seems to have disappeared. Perhaps there’s some connection.”
“I find that unlikely. As far as I know, Elder and Dixon never met.”
“Tell me this: If Elder worked for you only occasionally in recent weeks, how was he able to support his opium habit?”
Coffin scowled; he had grown weary of all the questions. He said, “I have no idea. Nor do I care. Now if you will excuse me, Mr. Lyons, I have four more pages of type to set and an editorial to write.”
Quincannon left the newspaper office, went to Jordan Street and uphill along it. He wondered if Marshal McClew had found out anything important in Slaughterhouse Gulch. But that was unlikely, if Whistling Dixon had been murdered by the gang of koniakers; they were too disciplined to leave obvious traces of themselves at the scene of a fatal shooting. Still, should he talk to McClew anyway? He decided against it. Perhaps later, but not just yet.
Thinking was a chore, out here with the rumbling wagons and the constant noise from the mines; he let his mind go blank as he continued climbing to the upper reaches of Jordan Street. The buildings clustered up there were little more than shacks, some of them made of tarpaper and hammer-flattened tin cans — the Chinese quarter. Yellow faces replaced white; coolie outfits and straw hats replaced the conventional garb of the mining camp. Two middle-aged Chinese came down the slope toward him, both with wooden “yokes of servitude” across their shoulders, five-gallon water cans balanced on each end. Aside from the digging of ditches and the building of roads, one of the few jobs open to Chinese in these mountains would be delivering water from door to door for a few cents a day. Even more demeaning were the other tasks for which the yoke would be used: to carry slop for the hogs and buckets for the cleaning of white men’s privys.
Near where Jordan Street petered out against the steep mountainside, Quincannon spied a small business section: a handful of stores, a pair of joss houses, some kind of meeting hall made of heavily weathered clapboard. He went along there, looking at each of the buildings. All were marked with Chinese characters; only one bore any English lettering, but that was the one he was interested in. A small sign
to one side of a door hinged with strips of cowhide said GENERAL STORE, and below that, in smaller lettering, YUM WING, PROPRIETOR.
Quincannon pushed open the door and stepped into the dark, windowless interior. The mingled scents of herbs and spices and burning joss sticks assailed him. He paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the murky light. At first he thought the store was deserted; then he realized that a man was standing motionless behind a long plank counter. The man did not move or speak as Quincannon crossed among tables laden with Chinese clothing, past shelves of pots and pans, tea, medicinal herbs, and other, unrecognizable items.
The Chinese, Quincannon saw when he reached the plank, was fat and middle-aged, with a graying wisp of mustache and his hair braided into a long queue down his back. He stood with his arms folded and his hands hidden inside the sleeves of his black coolie jacket — an aging Buddha surveying a temple of his own construction.
Quincannon said, “Yum Wing?”
A small bow. “How may I serve you?”
“I’m looking for a customer of yours, a white man named Jason Elder.”
Yum Wing’s round, smooth face might have been a mask for all it revealed. “Why does your search bring you to me?” he asked. He spoke English precisely, with much less accent than most frontier Chinese. An educated man, Quincannon thought. And a dangerous one, if his eyes and his demeanor were accurate indicators.
“Elder was a good customer, wasn’t he?”
“Many fan quai are good customers of my humble shop.”
Fan quai. Foreigners — foreign devils. Quincannon had worked among the Chinese in San Francisco; he was familiar with their language. And familiar with men such as Yum Wing, men who hated Caucasians, who pretended to be subservient to the white race while cheating and plotting against them at every opportunity. Yes: Yum Wing was a dangerous man.
Quincannon said, “Yo yang-yow mayo?”
If Yum Wing was surprised that Quincannon spoke his language, he gave no sign of it. “I have opium for sale, yes,” he said in English. “Very fine opium, from Shanghai.”
“Elder bought it from you, is that right?”
“I have many customers for my opium.”
“How much do you charge?”
“Enough for one pill, two bits.”
“You have yenshee, too?”
“Very fine yenshee. One ounce, one dollar.”