Angel underestimated Angus Wells.
The Justice Department man wasted no time in recriminations. He knew where Angel had gone and why, so instead of cursing he used all his energy and all authority his office gave him to set up a chain of transportation. Within an hour of his discovery of Angel’s disappearance, Wells was in a specially-chartered paddle steamer churning across San Francisco Bay. He had no eyes for the beauty of the scenery, fuming as Angel Island went by to starboard, fretting as they forged through San Pablo Bay and Benicia slipped astern. He was still grumbling with impatience as he stumped off the boat at Stockton and clambered aboard the waiting Concord.
He was no sooner in the red-painted stagecoach than the ribbon shaker gave vent to an explosive Rebel yell and the team careened out of the depot raising a huge cloud of dust as they burned up the road towards Sacramento.
A train was waiting for them there: Larry James had telegraphed ahead. It was just an engine with a flat car behind it, and had steam up already. They could only go as far as end of track, which meant that Wells had to pick up another Concord at Shingle Springs. He picked his way past the horde of gaudy dancers shuffling gravel on to the newly-built right of way by the light of flaring kerosene lamps. Night was down hard now on the teeth of the Sierras, but Wells would brook no delay. Aching in every joint he piled into the waiting Concord and the driver swung out on to the Placerville road. They pulled in four hours later.
‘What’s the road like?’ Wells asked the company at large, miners, travelers and freighters using the eating house on their way to or from the high country. He was wolfing down a plate of cold meat, beans and tortillas which he hardly tasted. It was fuel and Wells took it aboard as an engine takes on wood.
‘Port’ good all the way,’ one grizzled oldster said. ‘Watered ever’ night in summer, so she’s hard as rock.’
‘More or less,’ another grinned. ‘They’d a few rough edges left.’
Wells left them laughing at the sally and limped to the truck bed that had been set aside for him in a room upstairs. They would call him at four, just before dawn.
He looked at himself in the cracked mirror. His teeth shone whitely from the dusty grime of his face. He fell exhausted on the bed, fully dressed, his dreams haunted by the fear of being too late.
Dawn was streaking the eastern sky as, with a pistol crack snap of his whip the driver yelled the team into motion, lurching down the flat empty road towards the distant mountains. By midday the road was full of wagons lumbering along behind their teams of oxen, coaches and carts going both east and west. Where it was possible they overhauled them, swerving out on to the wrong side of the road, sometimes heeling over dangerously into the thin ditches alongside it, but miraculously the driver kept them upright, whipping the horses into a sharp trot as they went uphill and lashing them into an all-out gallop when the road sloped downwards. Gradually the trail began to wind and turn more. Several times they hauled in hurriedly as they came around blind corners to find a strung-out ox-team on the far side, but the driver was one of the best and kept the coach rattling at a hell of a lick all the way up to Echo Summit Pass, where they changed teams.
If Wells even saw the astonishing sweep of mountains and valleys tumbling away at his feet like a map of the world he made no comment on it. He stretched his arms and stomped his feet to iron out the kinks from the hours in the coach, and climbed back aboard the moment the driver said he was ready.
Then they were off again like a bat out of hell, thundering along the flanks of Lake Tahoe and heading for the last divide on the Sierra, crossing the line into Nevada as dusk shrouded the far mountains with a purple cloak. They heaved to a clamorous stop outside the International Hotel in Virginia City at seven thirty, having cut almost twenty four hours off the normal journey from San Francisco. If Angus Wells was tired he gave no sign of it. A rapid-fire string of commands sent messengers running down B Street and within another twenty minutes Sheriff Jim Nisbet and two deputies were with Wells in the lobby of the hotel. Standing there in a tight knot, they listened as Wells tersely outlined his authority, his reasons for being in Virginia City, and what he wanted Nisbet and his men to do.
‘No problem,’ Nisbet said. ‘Harry, get down to A Street and check whether Cravetts is there. Don’t do anything. Just check. Come back here as fast as you can and report.’
The deputy nodded and went into the night running.
Wells went across to the desk. The clerk looked at him with distaste.
‘A room,’ Wells said. The clerk frowned and then saw Sheriff Nisbet behind Wells. A smile pasted itself across his face.
‘You look as if you have been travelling hard, sir,’ he smirked.
‘Some,’ Wells said. ‘What number?’
‘I’ll put you in number fifteen, sir,’ the clerk said. ‘A nice room on the first floor. Right next to Mr. Torelli.’
Wells was turning away from the desk as these words were spoken, but he wheeled around and clamped both hands on the clerk’s forearms. The man went white with fear and his eyes rolled for help towards the sheriff.
‘Who?’ shouted Wells. ‘Who?’
‘Uh — ah - I — sir, you’re hurting my arm!’
‘What number is he in?’ snapped Wells.
‘Mr. Torelli, sir? Number fourteen, but—’
His words trailed off as Wells headed for the staircase, the sheriff close behind him. The clerk looked at one of the deputies in astonishment.
‘Is something wrong?’ he said, tentatively.
‘If it ain’t,’ said the man, ‘it’s about to be.’