“We didn’t mean nothin’,” the other man protested, “the place was empty an’ we—”
“You’ve got five minutes,” Waggoner said. “If you aren’t out of here and out of sight in five minutes, I’ll kill the both of you.”
Hastily, they caught up what they could, and with the one man only half-dressed, they stumbled down the trail.
Waggoner watched them go, rifle ready, then turned back to the cabin. For a moment he looked around, then he swore bitterly. The place was filthy.
With another glance out the door to be sure they were not returning, he opened the two windows to let in the air and then began to clean up. He swept the floor, dusted whatever needed dusting. He gathered up their bedding and carried it off the claim, dropping it in a heap. He found a six-shooter which had not been cleaned in months, and after emptying it, threw it out with the bedding.
The small stable, fit for two horses, had not been disturbed. He led his horse inside, stripped off the bridle and saddle, and forked down some hay. Back in the dug-out he placed a pistol on the table before him, and then stripped down his rifle and cleaned it with care. When it was cleaned to his satisfaction, he reloaded the rifle and started on the pistol.
Closing the windows and the door, he stripped down, and pouring water in the tin washtub, he bathed himself. He was a lean, hard-muscled man with massive shoulders and big hands. Naturally lazy, he disliked work of any kind and wanted very little. On Saturday night he wanted a woman, any woman, and he didn’t care what she looked like. Occasionally he took a drink. Once every month or so he went on a tearing drunk that lasted four or five days, at which time he was sullen, silent, and vicious. Bartenders, recognizing the type, served his drinks and left him strictly alone.
At such times he was given to taking offense at the slightest remark, and on two such occasions had almost beaten men to death over some trivial remark. Sober he was cautious, careful, and avoided trouble. He stole whatever he wanted, killed if anyone got in the way, killing men as he would a hog or a sheep. The idea of carving a notch for each man killed would never have occurred to him.
His desire was simple. To kill Trevallion and return to the coast.
He had no plan. No doubt Trevallion was working somewhere around, probably on a claim of his own. He would find out about that first.
The three hundred dollars he had just been paid would last him for months. There was more coming when the job was done. He would have a year of no worries, no troubles.
The town was bigger, bustling and busy. There would be more people around, and he would have to take care not to be seen or suspected. Then a good, clean shot and a ride back to the coast.
Nevertheless, as he stretched out on his bunk he was uneasy. Getting a good clean shot was not easy with Trevallion. Just when you thought you had him, he did something different.
The worst of it was, Waggoner suspected Trevallion not only knew what he was trying to do, but knew exactly who he was.
If he started in again, suppose Trevallion decided to lay for him?
No question about it. No matter what happened he must do it, get it over with, and get out.
And there were other ways than the rifle.
CHAPTER 22
All night long the wind blew. Stones rattled like hail against the walls and on the roofs of Virginia City, Gold Hill, and Silver City. The walls leaned away from the wind, and newcomers worried about their roofs and lay awake, frightened.
The longtime residents on Sun Mountain slept soundly, accustomed to the rattle of stones and the awesome sounds of the Washoe Zephyr. Their roofs might also go, but they knew there was no use losing sleep over it. Only the men in the mines were safe, and they had other things about which to worry.
Oozing layers of clay kept pushing into the empty tunnels, and unless trimmed back, would fill any space left available. The veins of ore widened, grew richer, and the problem of how to support walls and stopes became more serious. Up the street, beside a gas lamp, a German from Darmstadt labored over the problem. He thought he had it but was not sure. He got up, put on his hat, and went down the street to the bakery.
The bakers worked late, and the door was always open; the coffee was always ready. Philipp Deidesheimer wanted to talk. He needed another practical mining man, somebody like John Mackay, Fair, or Trevallion. He was sure he was right, but often a fresh viewpoint would bring up something he had failed to consider. Wearing his thick cap and heavy jacket, he went outside into the wind and a few spattering drops of rain. For a moment he stood thinking, and then walked slowly down the street. It was too late; he’d find none of the good ones out at this hour.
Neither Mackay nor Trevallion hung out at the saloons. Both dropped in, but were never late-stayers. Fair sometimes got to talking…it was almost midnight.
Only the bakery, where they were baking for the next day’s business, would be apt to have anyone he could talk to.
He tried the door, and it opened under his hand. Melissa was not there. Hans, from Hofheim, was there. The German baker greeted him with a nod. “Help yourself.” He nodded toward the big coffeepot. “Always, it iss ready.”
Trevallion was seated alone at the back table. He looked up and nodded. For a moment curiosity came. What was Trevallion doing around at this hour? Usually the hardworking ones were abed by this time.
Deidesheimer filled his cup and carried it to the table. He spooned in sugar, added some cream, and said, “I haff somet’ings to show you.”
He took a square of paper from his pocket and put it on the table in front of them. “Vee haff a problem. To support walls and roof. The veins are wide and grow wider. I can t’ink of nothing. Nothing at all. Then it comes to me—the honeycomb!
“Vee built mit square-sets, one atop the other, and we fill in with waste rock for added support. I t’ink vee haff it.”
“You’ll need a lot of timber,” Trevallion said, “more than now.”
“Yah, much more! Before it iss only pillars here and there!” He pushed the square of paper toward Trevallion. “Look! You haff worked in Cornwall! You know somet’ings!”
Trevallion studied it thoughtfully. Formerly, working with timber pillars often of sixteen to thirty-odd feet, there was only poor support, and there was no way of working either above or below the pillars without risk of a cave-in.
No miner had worked a vein the width of those at the Comstock before this, and new methods were needed. “I see no reason why it will not work,” he said. “I think you’ve got the answer.”
“It is for the Ophir,” Deidesheimer said.
“Everybody will be using it. Once they see how it works, it can’t miss.”
“You goot man,” Deidesheimer said. “I t’ink it iss well to go into the timber now. Mit a flume to carry down logs. I t’ink you tell me once your papa did not want you to vork underground, yes? Cut timber and you get rich I t’ink.”
Trevallion glanced at his watch. If he was to act, it must be soon. Deidesheimer finished his coffee. He got to his feet. “I am obliged. I wished for another opinion. I was afraid I had overlooked some obvious fault.”
Trevallion shook his head. “Whether you know it or not, and I am sure you do, you have revolutionized mining. This will change everything.”
“Perhaps.” Deidesheimer gestured widely. “Much iss new here. The old vays are no longer so good. Vee must find new vays for new problems, no?”
Trevallion walked outside with him and watched him start off toward his home. He waited for a moment, studying the street, and then he went around the bakery and took a narrow footpath toward the east. When he had gone some thirty yards or so he stopped, and from beside a rock he took up several stakes and a double-jack. Following the footpath, he was out of the lights and away from any houses. The path passed near some dug-outs, but all was dark and quiet. Before him loomed the head-fra
me over the Solomon’s shaft.
He waited, listening. He could hear the guard humming softly, then the sound of his boots as he walked. Timing his steps to sound with those of the guard, he walked up a small gully and past the Solomon’s hoist-house. From the corner he paced off twenty steps, and kneeling, he built a small cairn of rocks. In the exact center and close to the ground, he buried a tin biscuit box with his claim notice inside.
Moving to a corner he thrust a stake into the ground, hitting it two short, sharp blows with the double-jack. The sound of the blows was muffled by a glove he placed over the end of the stake, so he moved on quickly to another. As he struck the second blow he heard a muffled exclamation, then the sound of running feet. Flattening out on the ground he waited, listening.
The guard came as far as the hoist-house, then stood listening. After a bit, muttering, he walked away. Trevallion placed the other two stakes without trouble. He was rising to leave when the guard loomed over him.
“Hah! Got you!” He swung with the butt of his rifle.
Trevallion, only starting to rise, threw himself to the ground on his shoulder and spun around as the blow with the gun stock missed. His instep caught the guard behind the knee. The knee buckled, and Trevallion kicked him hard alongside the kneecap with his other heel.
The guard grunted with pain and fell. Like a cat, Trevallion was on his feet and kicked the guard in the head as he fumbled to get his rifle in position. The kick knocked him sprawling, and Trevallion caught up the rifle.
“You’re trespassing.” He spoke very softly. “You’re not on Solomon land any more. Now you crawl, you crawl to wherever you want to go, but don’t come back here. Next time I might hurt you.”
“You’ve busted my knee!”
“Not yet. It will be sore for awhile, that’s all. Now get out of here.”
“I got a job! I can’t just—”
“You had a job. You won’t have it after tonight. Now move!”
The guard tried to get up, cried out in pain, and fell. “Just crawl,” Trevallion whispered. “You’ll feel better that way.”
“You just wait, damn you! I’ll—”
“Tsk, tsk!” Trevallion said. “Don’t you ever learn? If you talk that way, next time I’ll have to be rough!”
He watched the man leave, then left himself, making his way back to the MacNeale claim. All was quiet. He waited, listening. No sound.
He went forward softly, pausing to listen at every other step. When he was inside, he lighted a lamp. Dane Clyde was asleep. Moving quietly, the lamp turned low, he got into bed himself. Then putting a hand half over the lamp-chimney, he blew out the light.
He lay still, wide awake, listening. He had heard nothing and he heard nothing now, but something disturbed him, something seemed wrong.
In the morning, he would find out in the morning.
He smiled suddenly, into the darkness. Tomorrow all hell would break loose.
The piece of land on which he had filed measured only a few feet, not much larger than the area covered by the Solomon hoisting-engine house, but unless he was mistaken it could prove to be the richest piece of the Solomon bonanza.
He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep. Outside in the darkness something stirred, but he heard nothing. A shadow appeared near the tunnel mouth and moved on cat feet past the cabin.
For a moment, when out on C Street, the shadow paused and looked back.
“Tomorrow,” its voice said, “tomorrow it will all be over!”
And then San Francisco!
CHAPTER 23
Albert Hesketh’s breakfast was served in his room. He arose at eight, shaved, and carefully parted his hair, and by the time he was ready his breakfast was at the door. He studied his beard in the mirror. He kept it carefully trimmed in the Van Dyke fashion.
He regarded himself with some satisfaction. He had come a long way, but in another four years he would own the Comstock. He was perfectly aware that others had identical ideas, and that others had taken steps toward that end. He was interested but not concerned, for he was on the ground, while the others of whom he knew were operating from San Francisco.
He went into his sitting room where his breakfast was neatly laid out. The newspaper, only a few months in existence now, was placed beside his plate. This was the Territorial Enterprise, an amusing sheet but not to be taken seriously.
He took up the paper, glanced through it, and replaced it on the table. He glanced through the San Francisco papers as well. The stock of the Solomon was where he wanted it, down a few points. He wanted Will Crockett’s stock or a part of it, and he wanted the stock price to be low so he could buy when the time came.
He knew more about Will Crockett’s finances than did Will, and the man had little cash. Somehow he must contrive to live and to pay his bills.
Ten shares were outstanding, and those ten shares represented control until such a time as he could get all or some of Crockett’s stock. He had already arranged for Crockett to be offered a loan, putting up stock as collateral. He would himself put up the money for the loan, strictly a secret thing, and he was sure that with Crockett’s casual way with money the stock would soon fall into his own hands.
Nonetheless, that outstanding ten shares was a problem. They had worried him from the start, for they were the only shares on which he had no lead. There was no indication who owned them. They had been sold at the very beginning from a company Crockett had operated in California, a company which had purchased the Solomon. In those days Crockett had been able to sell stock to only a few acquaintances, and during their time together Hesketh had quietly tried by every means to find out who owned them.
He led Crockett into long, rambling tales of his youth, of his early days in the mining business, listening patiently, avid for names.
The trouble was that Crockett liked people and he had known about everybody and had been friendly with everyone, even outlaws and people from the theater. Nowhere was there the semblance of a clue. Nor was Crockett being secretive, he either did not remember or thought it of too little consequence, and Hesketh dared not ask him the direct question. He was afraid he might make Crockett suspicious.
Hesketh had reason to be pleased with himself. He now had control of a mine he believed would prove to be among the richest on the lode. He had stock in several others and owned some nearby claims. He had moved with care and until now had kept himself in the shadows. Now he was a mine owner and an important man. He had moved into the Virginia House where he could live like a gentleman, and when the International was complete, he would live there.
He had no intimates, rarely indulged in conversation, and secretly viewed all those about him with contempt. He used all whom he could, ignored the others. He trusted no one, permitted no one to get even an inkling of what he planned. He had no enemies, unless Will Crockett had become one, and but few worries. If all went as he planned, he would soon be untouchable.
Finishing his breakfast, he put aside the papers, donned his coat, and went down the carpeted stairs to the lobby. He paused only long enough for a glance and went into the street.
Since moving to the Virginia House he had begun a new lifestyle but one calculated to attract attention. Virtually without scruples, he was completely concerned with himself and his own plans. He believed all others were like himself, completely devoted to their self-interest—except, perhaps, such blunderers as he conceived Will Crockett to be.
That he had betrayed the trust of a man who had consistently helped him had never so much as come to mind. He had seen his opportunities and taken advantage of them.
Now, neatly dressed in a gray suit, he walked slowly along the street. From this moment on, he intended to move into a commanding position, and he wished everyone to see and know who was in command.
His walk on this morning ended at the Solomon.
&nbs
p; He was scarcely in sight before the guard began waving at him. Irritated, he walked a little faster. What was all that frantic waving?
The guard was Joe Elsinger, a tough man. “Mr. Hesketh, when I got here, Alex was gone. Not a sign of him, anywhere.
“And look at that!” he pointed.
Hesketh had an angry reply on his lips until he saw the cairn. He started to speak, then stopped.
A cairn? A staked claim? Staked last night? By Alex? Not a chance. But by whom?
“Destroy it,” he said, “knock it down.”
“Mr. Hesketh? I can’t do that, sir. They’d call it claim-jumping. I’d get hung—shot, maybe. No, sir. That’s somebody’s claim marker.”
“That’s part of my claim!” Hesketh said irritably. “Don’t you suppose I know?”
“Sir? Begging your pardon, sir, but did you stake it? You, yourself? I knew of a case in Californy, sir, it was a case where the fifteen hundred feet seemed a mite long and some real sharpies, they measured it off and found it was eighteen hundred feet. So they staked the richest end of that claim, and they held it.”
Hesketh’s face was pale. Crockett! That damned fool! Couldn’t he do anything right?
For a moment he felt sheer panic, then a blind rage that left him fairly trembling with fury. Desperately he fought for control.
“It will be all right, Elsinger. I’ll handle this. There’s been some mistake, I think.” He paused. “When did you get here?”
“Seven, sir. That’s when my shift begins. I came on at seven and there was no sign of Alex. I looked high and low, but I did find his rifle.
“And it looks like there was some scuffling. I mean the ground was tore up and there were a few drops of blood. Nothing serious.”
“Thank you, Elsinger. Now you just stay on the job.” He would have to see whose name was on the filing notice. He walked out, hesitated again, then lifted away several stones.
Comstock Lode Page 18
