West of Washoe Read Online Free PDF

volunteers had drilled themselves well and took over with no confusion or wasted motion. Two men grabbed the pump handles on each side of the tank while two others unreeled the hose and another secured the big draft horses. Within a minute, the brawny men had the hose spraying the fire through the broken front window. As they beat back the blaze, they advanced, stepping through the window frame, playing the stream of water at the base of the fire, then on nearby flammable furniture.
    Within minutes, the blaze was out. The firemen continued to wet down the steaming wall and floor. The room was filled with smoke and steam, and a nauseating charred odor.
    The newspaper workers had retreated out onto the sidewalk, coughing to clear their lungs of the smoke that continued to billow out the open door and the shattered window frame. A quick survey showed no oneinjured except the burned compositor. A crowd had quickly gathered and blocked the street around the fire engine, a buzz of conversation filling the air. Ross and Scrivener stood to one side, watching the efficient volunteer fire company work, making sure no embers remained to re-ignite.
    “I told you Fossett wouldn’t have the guts to challenge me to a duel,” Scrivener said, wiping his sweaty face with a handkerchief, leaving a streak of soot on his cheek.
    Ross took a deep breath of clean air. “You had him pegged. Low-down coward to torch a man’s business, not caring who he might burn up in the process.”
    “And he thinks he got away with it, because I can’t prove he did it.”
    “Don’t know if he personally slung the torch, but I’m almost sure I wounded that rider.”
    Scrivener turned to him with a slow smile. “So maybe we do have proof…if we can find him.”
    Ross shook his head. “Unless it’s Fossett himself, it’ll be hard to say. Too many men shot in this town every day to make a wound anything unusual. And my Thirty-Six-caliber Navy lead ball is common enough. But we can get the law to investigate.”
    “What law?” the editor countered. “Like the stock market, this place pretty much regulates itself. There’s supposed to be a sheriff over in Carson City, but don’t know that anybody sees much of him. The police force here is a joke.”
    Ross gestured at the damaged office. “Did he put you out of business?”
    “Hell no! The press is OK. Looks like we saved the ink and there’s still plenty of dry paper. It’d take more than that to keep The Territorial Enterprise from publishing.”
    Scrivener stepped up to a muscular, red-faced man who was supervising the firefighting effort. “Murph, I want to thank you and the boys for a helluva good job saving the paper.”
    “That’s what we train for,” the big man said, pulling off his gloves. “The way the wind’s blowing tonight, the whole town could’ve gone up, if this’d gotten away from us. We’ll stand by for a couple hours to make sure it’s completely out.”
    The crowd in the street was beginning to disperse now that the excitement had died down.
    “Let’s get this place cleaned up, men,” Scrivener said, stepping back inside the office. “We’ll have that window boarded up tomorrow.”
    “I’ll stay and help,” Ross said.
    Scrivener surveyed the damage, hands on hips. “How badly is Bill burned?”
    Two men were gently removing the tattered remains of Bill’s charred shirt. The injured man was flinching as the cloth adhered to the raw spots.
    “Dunno yet.”
    Scrivener went into his office and jerked open a desk drawer. “Here, slather some of this on him and go get the doctor. You know where he lives? Roust him out of bed if you have to.” He handed over a tin of Mabrey’s Analgesic Balm.
    The editor looked at the others who appeared to be in shock. “Somebody open that back door and let’s get a cross draft in here to clear out some of this smoke. Break out the brooms.” He turned to a curly-haired, mustached young man standing nearby. “Clemens, you