Comstock Lode

by Louis L'Amour

  “We’ve been over this time and again and it always comes up to the same thing. Somebody wants you dead and that somebody has something he doesn’t want to lose. Also, my guess is that somebody is here.”

  “In Virginia City?”

  “You bet. You just bet your life.”

  “Looks like I have,” Trevallion commented wryly.

  They returned to work. Oddly enough, his hunch was paying off, for the ore they were taking out of the new drift was somewhat better than from the shaft, and he could use it.

  As he worked he turned the matter over in his mind. He was a man to whom decisions came easily, and he had been decisive all his life, yet now he was irritated by uncertainty. Waggoner was a problem with which he could cope, but Waggoner was his only lead to the man behind the violence.

  Who wanted him killed? Why? Who instigated the attempted robberies in San Francisco? And why?

  Trevallion forced the thoughts from his mind and settled down to drilling. Later, when they had paused briefly to catch their breath, he said, “Don’t mention this work.”

  Tapley indicated the two men working in the shaft. “Shall I speak to them? They’ll keep their mouths shut?”

  “Do that.” He leaned on the end of the sledge handle. “The ore we’re finding was sheer luck. I’ve just had an uneasy feeling about having only one way out of this mine. It will increase the circulation of air, too, but what I’m looking for is another way out, and nobody will know we have it.”

  It was dark before they emerged from the mine. He stripped to the waist and bathed in slightly heated water while a cold wind came off Sun Mountain. His digging clothes were stiff with dust and sweat.

  He got out the bread and cut several slices, then sliced beef from a large roast and put on the coffee. A couple of years ago he could have taken his six-shooter and gone hunting for Waggoner. Now Washoe was shying away from gunfights and trying to settle itself down to an orderly existence.

  Orderly in a disorderly way, for the town was a haven for roughnecks. The trouble was that a bum today was tomorrow’s millionaire. A man tossed out for not paying a board-bill might return a few days later and buy the place to fire the manager.

  The mines were opening up bonanza ore on every side. The Ophir, the Yellow-Jacket, the Gould & Curry, and the Savage were rich beyond belief. The enormous success of these mines had aroused an optimism that knew no limits. Trevallion was a mining man, which most of them were not, and pleased as he was with the success of the Comstock, he knew how quickly some lodes were worked out, or failed to continue. Again and again he heard bar-side miners comment that there was no end to it. They’d found the greatest lode of all time.

  There were miners who worked and miners who talked, and hundreds of deadbeats, petty thieves, and the usual drifters that follow booms. Despite that, there was a core of solid, hardworking men who were developing the mines. And there were some, like John Mackay, who were not only developing the mines but themselves as well.

  They met rarely. He had worked beside Mackay in California and was amazed at the man’s progress. In that short time his grasp of basic mining techniques had increased, and of mining geology as well. He talked little, went about his business, but knew what he was doing and where he was going.

  All the talk was of new developments. At parties given at the International, champagne flowed like water. The superintendent of one of the mines drove a handsome coach drawn by four matched black horses with a harness studded with silver. The carriage lamps were bright with silver and gold. Another had his horse shod with silver.

  The days of the shacks and dug-outs were gone, although here and there a few remained. Now the mining magnates lived in Victorian mansions with doorknobs of solid silver, Persian carpets, and Brussels lace curtains at the windows. The Gould & Curry was employing more than 2,000 men; several other mines had almost as many. In that year $20 million in bullion traveled over the old trail, now graded and surfaced, to the markets of San Francisco.

  * * *

  —

  Albert Hesketh enjoyed his new suite at the International. He had never cared to smoke, now he ordered Havana cigars. He had never drunk, now he had champagne. He was an important man, he told himself. He had more money than the original Heskeths had ever had, but he had no such position as they, and it rankled.

  Yet, he could be governor, or even a senator. He had money now, he had position. There were no limits. Only…there was the fear.

  A fear he lived with every waking hour, a fear that caused him to awaken in a cold sweat and lie wide-eyed and staring in the middle of the night.

  He could be exposed. Even if after all these years they could prove nothing, he could be exposed. The story could come out and all he had become could be shattered like thin glass. He could be destroyed.

  He suffered no remorse for what he had done, he suffered only fear of discovery, of exposure. One man and one woman lived who could, perhaps, expose him.

  Murder and rape.

  Murder might be forgiven, rape never. He must destroy them, they must both be killed, no matter how.

  Yet, why kill her? She was a beautiful woman. She was the right setting for him. She could add grace and beauty to a home, and she could not but admire him. After all, he was a success. He was making millions. Well, not quite millions, but they would come. And she knew nothing, she could know nothing. She had been too young, and she had not seen him. No one had.

  Trevallion?

  He hated the man, and the man worried him. The very thought of him was an irritation. Trevallion had killed Rory and he had killed Skinner—so much the better.

  Yet, how had he known who they were? Of course, he had been older than the girl, and he had seen them again when they tried to kill his father. Nevertheless, two men were dead and who was next?

  What the hell was the matter with Waggoner? What was wrong? Why had he not killed Trevallion? And that fool Kip Hauser, to let himself be caught flat-footed.

  Now Margrita Redaway was here, and she had been seen with Trevallion. What did that mean?

  But Trevallion knew nothing of him, could know nothing. Of course, he might remember him from that encounter in the street. Why had he been such a fool as to ask to see that coin?

  The moment he had seen it he had known it for what it was and was sure the senior Trevallion had found Spanish treasure. He was sure there was much of it in the wagon.

  There had been so little in comparison to what he had expected and hoped for, but still there had been enough to outfit him for California and to give him a start, and still enough left to enable him to buy shares in the Solomon. Albert Hesketh stared across the room, thinking.

  Two men, Will Crockett and Trevallion.

  They must be killed, and if necessary he would do it himself.

  CHAPTER 46

  Trevallion awoke in the middle of the night. He lay perfectly still, listening. His life had been such that he slept with awareness, quick to awaken at any slight sound or strange movement.

  The door was barred from within. The window was large enough for entry but was closed but for a crack at the bottom.

  He put his hand over to the chair where his holster hung from its gun-belt and slid the six-shooter into his hand. He waited a long moment but heard no further sound, if it was a sound that had awakened him.

  Easing from under the covers, he put the gun down on the bed and slipped into his trousers, then slung on the gun-belt and returned the six-shooter to its scabbard.

  All the time he was careful to keep himself in complete darkness, and not to lift his head high enough to be seen through the window. Knowing the position of what little furniture he had, he avoided it and got back into a corner from which he could see out of the window.

  Nothing, then a moving shadow, a glimpse only.

  He waited, listening, po
ised and alert. A shadow moved, but he was not such a fool as to shoot. It could be a friend not wishing to disturb him; only a fool shot at what he could not identify.

  Was there one man out there? Or were there more?

  There was a slight pressure on the door, but the bar permitted no give and the door was firm. One attempt, then no more.

  A friend or acquaintance would knock or call out. A shadow moved outside the window. Trevallion’s left hand dropped to the poker. Outside the window he saw the faint shine of a gun barrel, then a face pressed against the window, peering in. He swung the poker with his left hand.

  Glass shattered but the poker struck something hard beyond the glass. There was a faint cry, then a moan of pain and staggering steps.

  Somebody else swore, swore bitterly. There were muttered words and Trevallion waited, feeling the cold draft from the broken window.

  He heard boots on gravel, muttered protests, and more anguished moans. Trevallion hung an old coat over the broken window, and opening the stove door, he added a couple of sticks to the coals within. At once the fire blazed up and he glanced at his watch…two A.M. He took off his pants and got back into bed, listening to the pound of the stamp-mills. His pistol lay beside the bed on a chair and within easy grasp.

  At daybreak he was outside, repairing his window. There was shattered glass on the ground outside and some flecks of blood. There was also a six-shooter with well-polished bone grips on the butt. He took up the gun and carried it inside, then locking the door, he went to work in the mine.

  Tapley arrived a few minutes later and joined him. They had been working several minutes before Tapley straightened up and said, “M’lissa’s back.”

  “Back?”

  “She came in last night. She’s back at the bakery.”

  “Does Jim know?”

  “He does. He brought her back. Seems she got word to him somehow. She fell sick and that man of hers taken out. He left her.”

  “Ought to be shot.”

  “Jim’ll do it, if he sees him. He’s that mad. She got word to him somehow and he went for her. Found her in a cheap hotel with no money.”

  “Seem like old times, havin’ her back.”

  “If she gets well.”

  “Now if we could only find Will Crockett.”

  “I think he’s dead,” Tapley said. “Why would he leave like that? Where could he be, and no word from him at all?”

  “He might have gone back to California. He might be mining there. You know he had a mine there, sold stock in it, and—”

  Trevallion broke off. “Tap, what was the name of that mine Crockett had in California?”

  “Damned if I know. I never knew him, you know. I saw him around town a few times and down at the bakery or over at Eilley’s, but I never knew him well.”

  “I’ve got to know.”

  “Ask Hesketh. He would know if anybody would. He knew all about Crockett’s business.”

  “No, not him.”

  Trevallion put down his double-jack. “Tap, I’m knocking off for the day. I’ve got some questions to ask, and not of Hesketh.”

  “You want me to keep workin’?”

  “Yes, but watch yourself. I had trouble again last night.”

  Tapley looked at him. “I saw your window was busted.” He put his hat on again. “I’m goin’ with you.”

  At the house, Trevallion gestured toward the gun. “Know who owns that?”

  Tapley shrugged. “Might be a dozen of ’em around, but I seen one of those newcomers who run with Waggoner wear a gun like that.”

  Trevallion changed clothes and belted on his gun again. “You mind the store, Tap. I don’t know what’s going on, but I think all hell’s about to break loose. I’ve just had a hunch.”

  He went down the street to the International.

  “Miss Redaway?” the clerk said. “She went for a ride, I believe.”

  Trevallion turned sharply from the desk, then looked back. “Was Teale with her?”

  “I believe not, sir. I believe she went alone.”

  Where was Teale?

  “Sir?” Impatiently, he turned on the clerk. “Are you Mr. Trevallion?”

  “I am.”

  “She left this for you, sir.”

  He took the letter from the clerk and ripped it open.

  Val:

  I have had a note from a man named Will Crockett. He has asked to see me. He said he was ill and could not come to me. He is in a shack at the north end of Bailey Canyon, near the spring. Mr. Teale had business in Gold Hill and has ridden over there.

  I realize this is foolhardy of me but Mr. Crockett’s condition is such that there is little time.

  Grita

  A trick? He turned swiftly and went up the steps on the run. As he turned into the hall on her floor, her door was just being closed from within. He reached it an instant before the lock clicked shut and shoved it open.

  The man closing the door staggered back, a slender man with glasses and a pointed beard, well-dressed and apparently not at all alarmed.

  “Sir! You very nearly knocked me down!”

  “I am sorry, but as Miss Redaway is absent, I could not imagine who was in her suite.”

  “Absent? Oh, I am sorry! I was hoping to talk with her this morning, business talk. The door was ajar and I thought I heard her call out to come in. I must have been mistaken, but there is so much noise outside, you know how it is.”

  The cold blue eyes measured him. “You are a friend?”

  “I am, and shall be seeing her soon. If there is any message…?”

  “No, no, it is business. I will arrange to see her later. Now, if you please?” He stepped around Trevallion and went down the hall.

  Trevallion stood, thinking. Now who the devil—He turned quickly to get the man’s name but the hall was empty.

  He must go, but he did not like to leave the rooms empty. With her out of the way, and that might have been the idea, they could be searched at leisure. Still, the man he surprised certainly looked like anything but a sneak thief. A businessman, as he professed to be, or, what was it about the man that disturbed him?

  Mary!

  Of course! He would get Mary, and she lived on the same floor. He went down the hall. Which room was it? He rapped.

  She opened the door a crack, her hair done in curlers, a flowered wrapper clutched about her. “Oh! Mr. Trevallion!”

  “Mary, there isn’t any time. Miss Redaway has ridden off and I’ve got to find her. She may be in trouble. Will you stay in her suite while she is gone?”

  “I will that.” She turned hastily and began gathering up things. A pistol lay on the bureau top.

  “Is that yours?”

  “It is.”

  “If you can use it, take it along. This could be serious.”

  “Guns are always serious, Mr. Trevallion. I will take it, indeed, and if trouble comes, I shall use it. I’m a poor country girl, Mr. Trevallion, and I grew up shooting varmints.”

  At the stable he saddled the black mule. He was riding out when Ledbetter rounded the corner. “Trev? You’re not leaving, are you? Bill Stewart wants to talk to you.”

  “Later.” Quickly, he explained.

  “Bailey Canyon? I haven’t been up there in a year or more, but last I heard that cabin was empty.”

  Trevallion did not go by the longer, roundabout route that turned off above Seven Mile Canyon but cut across, riding west toward the head of Bailey.

  Smoke was coming from the cabin chimney. There were two horses in the corral and one, the one Margrita had ridden, tied to a hitching-rail outside the cabin.

  He pulled up, swung down, and tied the black mule. Slipping the thong from his six-shooter and carrying his rifle in his left hand, he went up to the door.<
br />
  The door stood open, although there was a chill in the air. Margrita sat on an empty box near the bed on which lay a man. Another man stood near the stove.

  Margrita got up quickly when she saw him. “Val! Thank God, you’ve come!”

  He stepped to the bedside. It was Will Crockett all right, but a man wasted and frail, his cheeks sunken, his eyes hollow.

  The feverish eyes caught the movement as Trevallion entered. “Good! Good!” he whispered hoarsely. “Tie to him, miss. He’s a good man. I should have listened to him, and to Melissa. They told me. They warned me.”

  He caught at Trevallion’s hand. “She has it! I gave it all to her! Her folks bought stock in my first venture! Bought when I was desperate for money! She has the controlling shares! Now I give her the rest of it on condition she throw him out, Hesketh. Throw him out and keep him out!”

  Crockett dropped Trevallion’s hand and reached for hers. “Careful! You’ve got to be careful! He’s left a trail of blood! It was his man shot me!”

  “Which man?”

  “The big, lazy-moving man, blondish. Figured I was dead. I wasn’t. Been nigh onto a week since. Had to live! Had to beat him!”

  “Dragged hisself a couple of miles,” the man by the stove said. “Must’ve been headed toward Virginia from over nigh Steamboat Springs. I done trailed him to where he fell from his horse. Killer chased after his horse, shot the horse, ripped open his saddlebags an’ dumped them out. I gathered up what lay about. It wasn’t much.”

  “Be careful!” Crockett’s voice had grown hoarser. “Kill you, don’t care. Kill anybody.”

  His eyes flared open and his hand flew out toward the paper on the rough table. “Sign it! Sign it! You’re a witness! I give an’ bequeath, all to her! Every bit!

  “I looked for your aunt, ma’am. I surely did. Then for you. I needed that, those shares.

  “Take charge. Put him out like he put me. Lock, stock, an’ barrel! Frisco! There was a man in Frisco died in a fire. Whoever set that fire thought it was all destroyed but it wasn’t! Find heirs! Buy rights! They’ll take anything, anything!”