Comstock Lode

by Louis L'Amour

  Leaving his cabin, he took a path that led between buildings and across lots to the bakery and was just emerging on the street when two men rode past.

  Abruptly, he stopped. They were dusty from the trail, and their horses showed signs of hard travel. They passed him only a few feet away and one of the men had a missing little finger and a bad scar on his hand.

  It was a hand one would not forget.

  CHAPTER 37

  The hall was crowded, with every seat filled. About one of every twenty was a woman. Trevallion followed Ledbetter, who was following the usher to a box at one side of the theater, if such it could be called. In a space suitable for four chairs, there were seven.

  John Mackay was seated in a box across the theater. He nodded briefly. Jim Fair was with him.

  Langford Peel strode down the aisle and took a seat in the third row, and one by one they filed in and took their places, the rich and the ones becoming rich, the bold, the dangerous, the acquisitive, the boisterous, and the shy.

  Trevallion glanced around, looking for Jacob Teale, but there was no sign of him. No doubt he was backstage. Trevallion found a seat at the back of the box and against the wall. Ledbetter looked around as he sat down. “I hear this Margrita Redaway is a handsome woman,” he said.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her,” Trevallion’s tone was mild. “Dane Clyde spoke of her.”

  “He’s in the company,” Ledbetter gestured toward the stage.

  Trevallion glanced around at the crowd. He was uneasy, but that was probably because he did not like crowds, and never had. There were familiar faces, and a few strange ones.

  Bill Stewart, the attorney, came in. A big, broad-shouldered man with a shock of red hair. He glanced about, glimpsed Trevallion, and walked across the back of the theater and came over to the box. Dozens of people were coming and going or merely standing and talking. Stewart stopped by the box, glanced around, and then said, “How’s things, Jim?”

  Ledbetter nodded. “Good enough. Snow on the pass already.”

  “There’s going to be trouble, Jim. Terry’s got something on his mind.”

  “The war. That’s all he talks about.”

  “It has to do with that.” Stewart glanced at Trevallion. “Where do you stand, Trevallion?”

  “I’ve never become involved in politics,” he replied mildly. “I’m a Cornishman.”

  “You’re a citizen, though?”

  “I am. And pleased to be one. What’s the problem?”

  “Lincoln’s going to need help. Are you Union or Confederate?”

  “I’m for the Union, Bill. It took awhile to put this country together. It would be a shame to tear it apart, no matter what the reason.”

  Stewart rolled his cigar in his jaws. “They tell me you can use a gun and that you’ll stand your ground. I’ll need some good men.”

  “You can count on me,” Ledbetter replied.

  “I’d have to know more about it,” Trevallion said. “When a man uses a gun he’d better have a good reason, even if he does have a good lawyer.”

  “What I have to do will be done with the sanction of President Lincoln, and at this juncture it is very important to his program and our victory. All I want is to keep trouble off my back for a few hours, maybe less.

  “Ordinarily I fight my own battles, but this time I will be busy and I don’t want to be interrupted.”

  “When you can, tell me about it. All about it. If it is legitimate, you can count on me.”

  After Stewart had gone, Ledbetter said, “He’s a good man, Trev. One of the best.”

  “I agree, but I let no man make my decisions for me. Not when it comes to what’s right or wrong. When there’s law, I obey the law. When there is no law I follow my conscience.”

  He glanced around. “They’ve a full house, certainly. What is the play?”

  “It’s been suddenly changed, I hear. They will play Francesca da Rimini. Why the change, I do not know.”

  He knew the play and liked it. If Margrita was playing Francesca, as he assumed, she would not appear until the second act. Dane Clyde he recognized at once, although appearing as an older man and made up accordingly.

  At the end of the first act, a waiter came around to take orders for drinks. He was ordering a beer when he happened to look past the waiter’s shoulder and saw Waggoner.

  The big, rawboned man had come in, sitting down across the aisle and two rows ahead of where Trevallion sat. The seat had been empty throughout the first act.

  The curtain went up on a scene between the Cardinal and Guido, Francesca’s father, and a moment later, Francesca entered.

  Trevallion was startled. She was a beautiful woman, but beyond a doubt it was the same Grita he remembered.

  As an actress her style was different, lacking the bombast and extravagant gestures of the other players. He scarcely heard the play through watching her. Although he knew it well, he had never heard it played as it was by this company. Moreover, the costumes were new, colorful, and a complete change from the worn and tattered costumes so many traveling companies possessed.

  He had papers that belonged to her, yet he found himself curiously hesitant to meet her. What could he say? He had known a frightened little girl, and this was a woman, beautiful, accomplished, and accustomed to a life far from mining camps and the cold streams where men washed for gold.

  If she remembered him at all, it would be a memory associated with horror.

  Should he go backstage? There was small chance he would be admitted to see her. How then? At her hotel?

  A man naturally reticent, he found himself even more so now. In his own world he was prepared for any situation that might arise. He had hunted, trapped, prospected for gold, defended himself; he had planned long journeys, coped with the wilderness. He had mined and was knowledgeable about ores, timber construction, shafts, winzes, raises, and the new square-sets, but he had no formal education, and his awareness of her world was from his limited reading only.

  Yet what had he to do? Deliver some papers that indicated her possession of certain properties, that was all. Nothing more was needed than what any messenger might perform.

  In his own world he was known, respected for his courage and his abilities; in her world all that counted for nothing.

  He was scarcely aware of the play, well as it was done. She was good, far better than he had expected, perhaps better than anyone he had seen. She had presence, making the whole play seem suddenly exciting and alive.

  The man who played Lanciotto seemed strangely familiar. Sitting up, he leaned forward; what was it about him? Dane Clyde was there, playing Malatesta, the father of Lanciotto, in rather heavy makeup, but Lanciotto? Why should he seem familiar?

  The play ended and they filed out onto the street. He stopped, looking around. Should he go backstage?

  Ledbetter glanced at him sharply. Then he said, “She’s good, isn’t she?”

  “Very good. Very, very good.”

  “She’ll do well on the Comstock. Been a long time since we’ve seen a woman that beautiful.” Then he added, “I was surprised not to see Hesketh. He rarely misses a play, and he knows her. Rode over from Frisco on the same stage.”

  “I wouldn’t know him if I saw him. I don’t believe we ever met.”

  “Hesketh? God knows he’s at supper every night at the hotel. Makes a thing of it, he does.”

  “I rarely go there.” There was no use trying to see her, anyway. Her papers were back at the cabin, hidden with some belongings of his own.

  “Want some coffee?” Ledbetter asked.

  “Not tonight. I’m going to get to bed. Thanks, though.”

  He turned and walked away up the street. Tapley came up and joined Ledbetter. “I seen the play. Good, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.” He jer
ked his head toward Trevallion. “I wonder if anything is wrong? He seemed preoccupied.”

  “He better not be,” Tapley replied. “Waggoner’s back in town and so is Hesketh.”

  * * *

  —

  Grita Redaway was dressed and adjusting her hair when Dane Clyde knocked and entered. “You made quite a hit out there tonight.”

  “We all did, Mr. Clyde. They seemed to like us.”

  “They’re hungry for entertainment, and especially any show with beautiful women. They see too few of them and they’re far from home. That’s why Lotta has been so successful, ever since she was a child. She played mining camps where those men hadn’t seen a child in months, maybe years. And many of them had youngsters at home. They used to give her nuggets, dust—everything.”

  “Let’s hope they haven’t changed,” she said. “Have you seen Mr. Manfred?”

  “He’ll be along. We thought we’d both better walk you and Mary back to the hotel. This can be a rough town.”

  He paused. “Oh, by the way. That friend of mine was out front tonight. Trevallion? He was sitting toward the back of the lower box on the right.”

  “Oh? I saw him then. I was looking at the audience before the curtain went up, a dark man in a black suit?”

  “That’s the one. He was a good friend when I needed one.”

  She made no reply. Together they went to the stage door. Manfred was waiting there. He gestured to indicate the town. “Look at that! The streets are crowded and it’s nearly midnight. It’s easy to see why Tom Maguire wants a theater here! The town’s booming!”

  “It should be,” Clyde said, “they are taking millions from the ground! The Ophir, the Potosi, the Hale & Norcross—there’s a dozen more, all taking out tons of ore, and listen to the stamps. They never stop, day or night, crushing ore to be sent through the mills.”

  “Why here?” Grita asked.

  Clyde shrugged. “It just happens that way. If what I hear is correct, there was a huge fissure formed ages ago, from an earthquake, volcanic explosion, or something of the kind. I’m no geologist. Hot springs shot steam, mineral water, and gas up through the fissure and they brought along with them, in solution, a lot of silver. The fissure was about four miles long and from fifteen hundred down to less than three hundred feet wide. There were a lot of cracks that broke off from the sides of the main fissure and they filled up, too. Chunks of rock from the mountain fell into the fissure, dividing into sections here and there. They’re saying here it is one of the greatest mineral discoveries in history.”

  “Did you ever do any mining, Mr. Manfred?”

  “No,” he said, after a minute, “although I planned to.”

  “Can we go into a mine?” she asked.

  Clyde shook his head. “I doubt it. Most miners think women are bad luck in a mine, but some have gone down. You wouldn’t like it. It’s steaming hot, muddy, and in some of these mines there’s clay that keeps oozing up through the cracks. It breaks timbers, forces its way in, and if it isn’t constantly removed it would fill a tunnel in time.”

  “I wish…I’d like to walk down the street. Is it safe?”

  A voice came from the shadows near the theater’s entrance. “It will be safe, ma’am.”

  “Oh! Mr. Teale!”

  “Yes, ma’am. You go where you’re of a mind to. I’ll be somewheres near.”

  “Thank you.” She turned to the others. “Mr. Clyde? Mr. Manfred? Shall we?”

  At every step there seemed to be a saloon or a dance hall humming like bells with loud talk, laughter, and tin-panny music. Bat-wing doors swung wide and a man, obviously drunk, staggered onto the walk. He saw Grita Redaway and blinked, then he stepped back and with elaborate courtesy doffed his hat and made a deep bow. “Madam, your carriage awaits!”

  “Thank you, sir!” she said, laughing.

  They walked on down the boardwalk and men moved back as they approached. One man also removed his hat and bowed slightly. “A fine performance, Miss Redaway. We are honored.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, smiling.

  A step or two further, Dane Clyde said, “You have been honored. That was Langford Peel.”

  “Who is he? I don’t know the name?”

  “He’s the ‘Chief’ as they call him. Supposedly the best man with a gun on the Comstock. He’s killed several men. He was a soldier, I think, before that.”

  “The best man with a gun? Is he what they call a gunfighter?”

  “Very much so.”

  Teale spoke quietly. “He ain’t the best, an’ he doesn’t claim it. He’s just handled what trouble came his way, and never hunted it to the best of my knowledge. Anyway, he ain’t the best man with a gun on the Comstock.”

  “No?” Manfred asked. “Who is?”

  “Trevallion is. I’ve seen him in action.”

  Grita paused and turned toward him. “You have seen him kill a man?”

  “Yes, ma’am, although he don’t know it himself, and I never mentioned it to no one. It was a man needed killing.”

  “Was that over a card game? I’ve heard stories of that,” Clyde said.

  “No, but I heard about that. Caught a man cheatin’.”

  “There was more to it,” Manfred put in. “Some words passed between them, something relating to Missouri.”

  Grita Redaway thought for a moment her heart had stopped beating. She swallowed. “Missouri?”

  “Some old grudge. Some say Trevallion knew he would cheat and wanted an excuse to kill him. Well, he done it.”

  CHAPTER 38

  She waited a moment, wanting to know yet almost afraid to ask. “You said you saw him kill a man?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Teale said. “It was out on the trail. I’d headed for the settlements and was plumb beat, so I just turned off the trail into the brush, staked my horse out of sight, and bedded down.

  “A horse comin’ along the trail woke me. Then there was another horse from the other direction. Well, ma’am, I got enemies here and there, so made out to ready myself for trouble.

  “I could see them plain. One of them was Obie Skinner. He was a runnin’ mate of that man who was killed over the card game, I don’t recall his name. That Skinner was a bad one, real bad. He wasn’t afeered of anything, and he was almighty good with a gun.

  “The other one was Trevallion. It was that Missouri thing again. Trevallion brung it up and Skinner went for a gun. I’d of bet my shirt on him but he didn’t have no more show than a jackrabbit at a coyote picnic. Trevallion blew him out of his saddle.”

  “Please,” she turned to Manfred and Clyde. “I’d like to go back to the hotel now.”

  In the lobby she turned suddenly to Teale. “Mr. Teale? Will you sit down with me, please? I want to ask you a few questions.”

  She turned to Manfred and Clyde. “Thank you, gentlemen. Tomorrow, then? At the theater?”

  “If you’d like us to wait?” Clyde suggested.

  “No, I will be all right. I just thought of something I’ve been wanting to know about mines. Mr. Teale can tell me, I’m sure.”

  When they were gone, she turned to Teale. “Will you sit down, please?” When they were seated she said, “You are an interesting man, Mr. Teale, and a curious man, are you not?”

  “Whatever a body knows can’t hurt him an’ may be a help. When I’m hunting buffalo, I try to learn a buffalo’s habits. It’s the same with beaver.”

  “And men?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Men have their ways, too, an’ each one a mite different. I try to know the ones who might be trouble for me.”

  “Like Trevallion?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But he will never be a trouble to me. He’s a good man.”

  “He’s killed men?”

  “So have I, ma’am. Sometimes it’s necessary. Someti
mes they invite it, comin’ at folks the way they do. I don’t look for men to shoot unless they are comin’ at folks. Then I take steps.”

  “Trevallion?”

  “I listen well, ma’am, and sometimes I prompt. I sort of nudge folks who might know something. Trevallion killed those men for something happened a long time back. Well, there was a man kept a trading post down off the mountain. Been there a long time. He’s gone now. Sold out. But he knew Trevallion when he was a boy. Knew his pa.

  “Seems Trevallion’s pa was killed by some men who come ridin’ in, Trevallion’s pa got two of them but they killed him. They’d have killed Trevallion, he was just a lad, if they had time, but folks was acomin’. They taken out.”

  “Do you know what was behind it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Trevallion’s pa told this man who ran the trading post some of it. He got more from some who came across the plains with him. Seems Trevallion’s ma and another woman had been set on an’ killed back in Missouri. That other woman’s husband was killed, too.”

  “How well do you know Trevallion?”

  “Sort of. We come down the trail together a time or two. He ain’t one to talk. Minds his own affairs. Does his share an’ a mite more.” Teale looked up at her suddenly. “Ma’am, I’d not say this to many, but I size a man up. I say if that thing had not happened back there in Missouri, Trevallion would be one of the biggest men on the Comstock. He knows mines and he’s sharp. He’s got it in him.”

  “Does he have so much hate in him then?”

  “Maybe, maybe that’s it, but maybe it is something else. Maybe it is just that he doesn’t want evil to go unpunished and be free to commit other evils.”

  “So he takes the law into his own hands?”

  “Where there’s law, I say let the law handle it, but out in wild country like that, ma’am, out in wild country where there’s no law, a man has to be the law. He has to administer justice.