“From Justice Stephen Field? That’s funny as hell. Look, you’re a nice young fellow and I like you. But take my advice and back off asking about the big shots who own this state. You’ll never in a million years hang a stolen nickel on old George Hearst or his friends.”

  “Even if I catch them stealing from the U.S. Mint?”

  “Shit, Longarm, who do you think owns the U.S. Mint?”

  “The taxpaying public, according to the U.S. Constitution.”

  “Son, the Constitution doesn’t apply to folks as rich and powerful as those old boys. But aside from the danger to your job if you piss them off, I’d say you were way off base. No big outfit like the Sheep Ranch mine would be interested in stealing ore. They’ve got ore! I’ll tell you—off the record—Hearst and Ralston own half of the Big Bonanza over in Virginia City. They’ve staked claims to the Black Hills ore that Custer got killed over. George Hearst has an interest in that new Anaconda outfit up in Butte, Montana. Hell, all the gold the high-graders have stolen from Kevin MacLeod wouldn’t pay the salaries of old George’s house niggers!”

  Longarm said, “I never suggested that anyone as big as an owner might be high-grading. I don’t suspect Huntington or Stanford of playing games with railroad switches, either. But you’re right about lots of folks working for those big shots. Many a hardworking cuss has plenty of reasons for wanting a bigger slice of the pie. Don’t the branch managers of mining properties work on commission?”

  The banker frowned and said, “Now that you mention it, they might. You ain’t as dumb as you look. Have you studied the men who run the refinery south of town? They get a bonus on the bullion they extract from ore, too!”

  Longarm nodded and said, “I mean to have a talk with them later. I don’t think they lied to MacLeod about the ore he’s been delivering.”

  The banker narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips as he muttered, “I know this sounds pretty raw and obvious, but have you considered how easy it would be to give MacLeod a false assay? I mean, we don’t know the so-called worthless rock never went through the stamping mill later, say around midnight.”

  Longarm grinned and said, “That was one of the first things I came up with, but it won’t wash. I was there when they ran the assay. Later on, I sort of snooped around the rock piles down the track. You see, I took the liberty of marking a few lumps of MacLeod’s ore when they told him it was worthless. It’s still just lying there. Besides that, they’ve got too many workers at the refinery to play so rough a game on folks. I’ve added up such refined-out bullion as there could be in ore twice as rich, and I arrived at a figure for the gang.”

  “You know how many high-graders there are?” the banker asked.

  “Nope. I know how many there might possibly be, though. We’re dealing with sophisticated professional thieves, or they’d have been caught by the first lawmen who looked for them. Professionals don’t steal pennies. Allowing each possible member of the outfit at least a few hundred dollars each time a shipment’s diverted, there can’t be more than two dozen or so in on it, counting payoffs to folks who just look the other way. There’re just too many folks to pay off down here at the Sacramento end. The ones I want are operating out of Calaveras County.”

  “That still takes in a mess of folks, son.”

  Longarm rose from his chair as he said, “I know. And since I don’t aim to arrest you, I’d best be on my way. I thank you kindly for cooperating with me as far as your regulations allow.”

  Leaving the Crocker bank, Longarm walked over to the land office for another visit.

  The man who remembered Mark Twain, although not the celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, was not on duty that afternoon. This did not make the tall deputy at all unhappy, for he wanted to see if they always gave out the same tale to visiting lawmen.

  They did. Longarm talked to an almost-pretty girl named Justine. She said she was a miner’s widow and that she’d gotten the job on merit. It was amazing how many women were holding down men’s jobs, these days. Likely it had something to do with Queen Victoria, Longarm thought. Back when he was a kid, before the War, he never saw women in offices with pencils stuck in their hair. Ever since the English had allowed a woman to be ruler of the British Empire, it was getting harder and harder to say no to a female applicant. Which was the way things should be, he supposed, but he found it difficult to do real business without cussing.

  Justine took him back to her cubbyhole and told him she knew all about the Spanish land grants he was interested in. As he sat down across from her, she started by correcting him. “Actually, the so-called old Spanish grants you hear about in California were never granted by the Spanish crown. When Mexico declared its independence in 1821, California was sparsely settled. Aside from the missions, they had a few military garrisons: the San Francisco Presidio, Monterey, and so forth.”

  Longarm smiled at her, wondering if she wore her hair in that tight little bun to look more down-to-business, or if she really had no notion of fashion. He asked, “Are you saying folks like the Vallejos are full of bull when they brag about all the wild mustard they used to own?”

  Justine shook her head and said, “No. Mexico gave away vast tracts of land in hopes of filling up this part of the continent before we got around to claiming it as our manifest destiny. The Russians were moving down the West Coast from Alaska, too, and the Hudson Bay trappers must have worried Mexico City. I know the Vallejo grant. It was one of the big ones. But the family obtained it from Mexico, not Spain.”

  “Ain’t we sort of picking nits, ma’am? I understand the conceit your California Mexicans have about being called Spanish. But I don’t see how it matters all that much.”

  Justine sniffed and said, “It’s rather pathetic, but most of the early settlers were Spanish or Mexican soldados. Male, of course. The distaff half of the old grandees tended to be Indian squaws. The last Mexican governor of California was a Negro.”

  “That’s what I just said.” He frowned. He wondered if she was so precise in bed, and if it would be worth finding out. The girl explained, “The treaty of ’48 between our government and Mexico recognized the holdings of former Mexican nationals. A real Spanish-grant would be meaningless unless it had been confirmed by Mexico before the Mexican War and the resultant treaty. Most of the mission lands, for instance, were taken from the Church by Mexico before we got here. So the missions are simply empty shells today.”

  “What happened to the mission Indians?”

  “They, ah, lost out in the shuffle. People like the Vallejos, Irvines, and Castros had sense enough to hire good lawyers.”

  “I heard about the Irvine Ranch, down past Pueblo Los Angeles. They didn’t lose so much as a quarter section, did they?”

  “The Irvine holdings are huge, even by land grant standards,” she averred. “The Scotsman who married into that family had a good lawyer.”

  “He was white, too. The way I hear it, how much land you got to keep depended a little on your complexion.”

  Justine looked pained and said, “That’s not fair. Poor Sutter lost his mill and everything else, and he was as white as you or me. The land office is not prejudiced, as some Mexicans seem to think.”

  Longarm smiled crookedly and said, “Sure it ain’t. I’ve no doubt that all the land that was grabbed was grabbed fair and square. But it’s the Vallejo holdings I’m interested in. The Lost Chinaman mine sits smack-dab on land the Vallejos used to own. I’d like to know how come.”

  Justine said, “I can tell you that without looking it up. Old land grants have priority over homestead claims. Mining claims come before agriculture.”

  “You mean if I was to find a gold mine on any land at all—even if it was occupied—I could just up and take it?”

  “Of course. You wouldn’t need to strike gold. Copper, silver, or mercury would do as well. Once you’d staked out the limits of your find and registered it with the California Mining Commission, it would be all yours.”

  Longarm’s eyebrows rose. “Back up, ma’am! You mean I could start a mine anywhere at all? Suppose someone had a house already built over it?”

  She shrugged and said, “It’s happened. It’s led to messy gunfights, too. Few old land titles include the mineral rights, as poor old Sutter found out when they panned the soil out from under his mill and general store.”

  Longarm frowned and said, “That hardly seems fair, ma’am.”

  “I never said it was. But the men who wrote the California laws were mining men, and the law is the law.”

  Longarm whistled softly under his breath as he mulled her words over in his head. Then he said, “I can see how the Vallejos lost the land the Lost Chinaman sets on. Is there any legal way they can get it back?”

  “Not as long as there’s a viable mine site up there. The owner of a mine is the landlord of record. He can transfer the property, hold it for land speculation, or do just about anything he likes. The original owners have no say. The only way they could hope to recover the property would be by buying out the mineral rights. This happens too, occasionally.”

  Longarm shook his head and said, “Felicidad Vallejo ain’t got the wherewithal to buy a going gold mine. But what if the mine was to play out and be abandoned?”

  Justine pursed her lips. Longarm noticed that they pursed nicely. She said, “As I recall, the mine you speak of did pinch but a few years ago. But the owners hung on and sold it recently. I could look the new owners up for you, if you like.”

  “I know Kevin MacLeod and his wife, ma’am. The cud I’m chewing is the final outcome of the mess. Am I right in figuring that the Mexicans who used to own the property could get it back if the Lost Chinaman went out of business for keeps?”

  Justine nodded and said, “If the mine shut down and nobody else put in a mineral claim.”

  He stroked his mustache pensively for a moment, then asked, “What if the mine went broke, but some other outfit was to buy it?”

  “They’d own it, of course. As long as anyone is working a mine, or even sitting tight over a hole in the ground, the original property owners are simply out of luck.”

  He swore under his breath and said, “I can see I’m chasing my fool self smack down another blind alley, most likely. But I thank you kindly for lighting the way.”

  She smiled rather warmly, considering the severe way she wore her hair, and asked, “I take it you’re working on a process of elimination, sir?”

  “You can call me Longarm, ma’am, and I’ve eliminated myself out onto another durned limb. I’ve got maybe one more arrow in my fool quiver, and if that doesn’t work, I’ve met up with some cuss who’s too durned smart for me.”

  He started to rise. Then he thought better of it, since he faced a lonely night ride back to the county seat in the first place, and wasn’t in all that great a hurry in the second.

  He said, “I can see you’re anxious to close, ma’am, since it’s creeping up on four-thirty. Do you, uh, live around here?”

  Justine nodded and said, “Just a few blocks over.” Then she added, “With a very possessive gentleman.”

  He said, “Do tell? I didn’t notice a wedding band, ma’am.”

  Her smile was smug when she nodded and told him, “I never said I was married. I suppose you might call me an emancipated woman.”

  He shot a wry, wistful grin at her and rose to his feet, saying, “I won’t keep you from enjoying your constitutional rights, ma’am.”

  As he let himself out with a slightly mocking bow, she grinned up at him and said, “Nice try, cowboy.”

  He left, frowning. He didn’t think he looked very much like a cowboy, and his “try” hadn’t been much more than common courtesy. He’d seen no need to twist the knife like that.

  Then, as he walked out into the sunlight, he began to laugh. It sure beat all how women kept surprising him, but wouldn’t life get tedious if a man was right every time? He headed for a café across the street to put away some chili and maybe some apple pie, telling himself, What the hell, old son, you can’t win ’em all!

  * * *

  The next twenty-four hours were enjoyable, but had little to do with the case, since he spent as many of them as he could with Pru Sawyer. By the time he said goodbye a second time, she’d gotten over any inhibitions she’d ever had about nudity or anything else. She told him she’d read all the books about such matters that were in the library, but that he’d shown her a few tricks they hadn’t mentioned. It was good to know he’d helped a young lady’s education; she obviously intended to put it to good use. He almost felt sorry for the next gent she snared with her downcast eyes and shy little smile.

  Nobody shot at him as he rode back toward Manzanita. His smoke signals seemed to have left the roads in a deserted condition and nobody was expecting him.

  He circled up through the trees behind the Lost Chinaman, tethered his mount in a brushy draw, and eased up to a ridge that offered him a clear view of the diggings.

  He’d timed his arrival well. The ore cars had been hauled away.

  MacLeod and Lovejoy’s deputies were well on their way to the mill with the latest shipment. He watched, chewing an unlit cheroot. He wasn’t sure just what he expected to see. But until now, everyone had been watching the ore shipments. That train pulling out was the misdirection the book had been talking about. He was watching the stage instead of the magician’s flashing hands.

  Nothing much seemed to be going on. Some workmen brought a car of ore up out of the mine. Lottie MacLeod walked over from the cabin and he could see that she was directing them to put it on the lift and load it in the tipple. He could have figured out where the ore should go, but MacLeod had said they were using unskilled help.

  The woman went back to the cabin and the men walked slowly back to the mine entrance and disappeared. It was pretty uninteresting. A jay sassed Longarm from an overhead branch for a while. Then, getting no answer, it lost interest too, and flew off to bother someone else.

  Lottie came out of the cabin again and began hanging up some wash to dry. Longarm scanned the treeline all around. There wasn’t any movement. Nothing worth thinking about was happening down there. But Longarm kept watching. He had no idea what the magician’s assistants might be up to as everyone watched where they were supposed to. But if he knew what he was supposed to be looking for, he wouldn’t have to look.

  He took out his Ingersoll watch and studied it. MacLeod and the others would be on their way back from the refinery by this time. If they came by stage, they’d be back around sundown. If they got the railroad to give them a ride back on the empties, it would be sooner.

  The afternoon wore on. Not a damned thing happened. He waited a good two hours, made himself sit there for one more, then grunted, “All right. Either that magic book was wrong, or the pea is under some other shell.”

  He crawled back to his horse and mounted up. He circled wide of the diggings and rode slowly into Manzanita. He tied the gelding in front of the saloon and went in. He bought a bottle of Maryland rye and took it to a corner table, where he sat with his back wedged in the corner. When a cowhand came in and started to walk over to the music box, Longarm asked him not to play “Garryowen.” The cowhand shrugged and settled for a beer at the bar.

  After a while Ralph Baxter came in. He sat down across from Longarm and said, “I saw your horse outside. I thought you were leaving.”

  Longarm said, “I did leave. Now I’m back. My office wants me to look into a few more angles before I’m relieved.”

  Baxter said, “Our rooms were searched while we were in Sacramento.”

  Longarm said, “I figured as much. Mine was, too.”

  “The desk clerk told me. What on earth do you suppose they were looking for?”

  “Don’t know. What was taken?”

  “Nothing. Nothing important. What are you missing?”

  “The same. They were likely barking up the wrong tree. You say you went to Sacramento?”

  “Yes. I’ve been authorized to offer two million for the Lost Chinaman, but that’s the end of it. If they won’t sell at that price, they’re welcome to any gold they can get out of there. Frankly, I’d have broken off negotiations at a hundred thousand. That fool hasn’t made that much since he reopened the mine.”

  Longarm poured himself a drink, holding the bottle out to Baxter. The Bostonian sniffed and shook his head. So Longarm sipped at his own drink and said, “So far, nobody seems to want to let him. The bank draft you’re offering MacLeod is from the Crocker Trust, right?”

  Baxter nodded with a frown and said, “As a matter of fact, it is. How did you know?”

  “I rode into Sacramento myself to discuss high finances yesterday afternoon. They tell me your outfit’s been known to play rough, but their checks don’t bounce. By the way, did you bring your, uh, sister or whatever back to Manzanita this time?”

  Baxter flushed and snapped, “Don’t be crude, God damn it. We both know what Sylvia is. She tends to gloat about it. The only reason I don’t beat the tar out of you is simply that there’s a long line ahead of you. I’d have time for little else if I intended to thrash every yokel she’s known in the Biblical sense.”

  Longarm stared down at his glass and said, “Yeah. She is sort of Biblical, but you didn’t say where she was at.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll just have to make do with your little Mexican thing tonight. We heard there was Indian trouble up this way, so I left Sylvia in Sacramento. I assume she’ll find something to occupy her time while I settle this more important matter.”

  Longarm didn’t ask how the jasper knew about Felicidad. That was the trouble with small towns. He said, “You ain’t scared of Indians, huh?”

  Baxter grimaced and replied, “I simply want to buy the damned property and get out of this stupid country. I have no intention of riding out into the hills where they can get at my scalp.”