Quincannon went to the rear door, pounded on it urgently, and yelled, “Firel Firel”
Inside, voices and running steps responded. He ducked around the north corner, ran as fast as his bruised ribs would allow to the front entrance. From there he could see the Studebaker wagon and the floor space around it: there was no sign of Henry or the redhead. The rear door must be open — he could smell smoke from the fire, see trailing wisps of it in the lamplit interior. At a distance, someone — it sounded like Henry — was cursing inventively.
Quincannon ran up the ramp, across to the tailgate of the Studebaker, and loosened one of the ropes that secured the canvas covering the bed. Under the canvas, he saw when he lifted the corner flap, were a dozen or so wood-slat crates. He tugged at the top of the nearest crate, found that it had been nailed down. But there was finger space between two of the slats; he got a grip on one and wrenched once, twice, three times before a nail pulled loose and part of the slat splintered off with a loud snapping noise.
He jerked his head up to look toward the rear. But the sound had been lost among several others. The horses back there had smelled the fire and were making nervous snorts and thumpings in their stalls; the drays harnessed to the Studebaker were likewise being noisily skittish. Outside Henry was still yelling. It was plain that he and Griswold were still occupied in trying to put out the fire.
Quincannon shoved his hand down through the broken section of the box lid, felt straw packing, and burrowed through it. His fingers touched something — paper, a small bundle — and then caught hold of it and dragged it out into the light. The bundle was of brand new greenbacks, twenties judging from the top one, tied with thin twine. He pushed it into his coat pocket, dropped the canvas and retied the rope, and hurriedly backed away from the wagon.
No one saw him leave the livery except a group of three men who had been drawn by the smoke and were on their way around back; none of them paid any attention to him. A short distance away, he paused to check the bundle of greenbacks more closely; they were definitely counterfeit. Then he continued uphill at a rapid pace, but after a block, pain from his ribs and shortness of breath forced him into a walk. He was sweating and dry-mouthed by the time he reached the Wells Fargo building.
At the Western Union counter he composed a lengthy wire to Boggs. Added to the proof he had already assembled, the bogus notes in his pocket and his positive identification of Griswold as Bonniwell’s killer gave him all the justification he needed to take direct action. There was no doubt now that Bogardus was the leader of the koniakers, and that the Rattling Jack was where the queer was being manufactured. Even Boggs, once he had all the data in hand, would be satisfied of that.
He requested that federal arrest and search-and-seizure warrants be obtained, and the immediate dispatching to Silver City of as many federal officers as could be spared. He also requested that a watch be put on the wagon road between Silver and Boise and when the Studebaker wagon arrived, Griswold be placed under arrest and the shipment of counterfeit confiscated. If Boggs wasted no time when the telegram arrived — and he wouldn’t, knowing Boggs — the necessary men and papers should all be here within three days. A raid on the Rattling Jack could be mounted sometime on Sunday, then, preferably with the assistance of Marshal McClew and as many special deputies as he could provide.
Quincannon waited until the message was sent, then found his way to Silver’s other livery stable, Tully’s, where he rented both a spyglass and a claybank horse with a placid disposition. For his mission to the Rattling Jack, he wanted an animal that wouldn’t fuss when it was left alone in unfamiliar territory and thereby call attention to itself and to him.
On his way out of town he rode by Cadmon’s Livery, venturing close enough to determine that the red-haired man and the Studebaker wagon were still there. It was already two o’clock; because of the fire, Griswold would be even later starting down the Poison Creek road on his way to Boise. All the more time for federal officers to establish watchpoints on the roads leading into the state capital.
Near Ruby City Quincannon took the narrow wagon road that led around to the south slope of War Eagle Mountain. Wind lashed at him as he passed through the hollows and over the swells toward the Rattling Jack. The jouncing gait of the horse aggravated the pain along his rib cage; twice he had to stop for short periods to ease it and to catch his breath. When he neared the turning beyond where the mine buildings clung to the hillside he left the road and found a way down through the ravine below. The terrain soon roughened and became so rocky that he had to step down and lead the claybank, upslope in one place around an old prospect hole.
It took half an hour for him to work his way to within a hundred yards of the stockade fence. There he ground-reined the horse and went on foot to the fence, along it stealthily for a short distance in two directions. As he had suspected, there were no openings large enough for a man to pass through; and climbing it would be a damned difficult proposition, for the posts were made of juniper stakes sharpened to points at the top. The only feasible way in, aside from storming the gates, was from the bluff at the rear — if the bluff face could be scaled.
He returned to the claybank, mounted, and swung back along the ravine until he found a place where he could climb out on the east side, beyond the mine. Then he headed back to the south, up onto the bluff. At a point where the Rattling Jack was still hidden, he again ground-reined the horse, took the rented spyglass, and went on foot to the scattered rocks along the edge. He settled himself behind an outcrop, from where he had a clear overall view of the compound below.
Through the glass he studied the surface works. The building nearest the bluff was also the largest in the compound: the main shaft house. Below it to the west was a stone-walled powder magazine, the tramway, and at the foot of the slope, the stamp mill. On the east side were a stable, a pair of frame structures that were probably living quarters, and the mine office. The rest of the yard was cluttered with wagons, tools, a lean-to used for storage, a long rick of mine timbers.
Although the stamps were pounding away inside the mill, sending up jets of smoke and steam through the roof stacks, the tram was deserted again today. There was no watchman on the gates; evidently Bogardus felt the fence was sufficient security. Men moved here and there in the yard at irregular intervals, and the building that drew and disgorged most of them was the largest and furthest uphill of the two bunkhouses.
Was that where the counterfeit notes were being made? It seemed a good bet. They would need plenty of room for the printing press, the bundles of paper and the different types of ink, the containers of acid and powdered resin, all the other items an operation of this size and production required. And none of the other buildings in the compound seemed suitable. The manufacturing point of the silver eagles and half eagles on the other hand, was probably the stamp mill, where they would have ready access to the silver that came out of the stamps.
At length Quincannon lowered the glass and looked down the face of the bluff. The drop-off was almost vertical, and at the bottom were buildups of talus and loose dirt; but it could be scaled by an agile man using a strong rope under the cover of darkness. A night raid, then — it would have to be. One man to get in this way, when the koniakers were asleep, and then open the gate to let in the rest. With a modicum of luck, the whole operation could be accomplished without a shot being fired.