Comstock Lode (1981)

by L'amour, Louis

  "I'm glad you stopped." Her face was flushed from the heat of the stove and her hands covered with flour. "Today I am baking for the first time in this house, and I have made a pie, just for you!"

  "Thanks." He dropped into a chair made from a barrel. "Is everything all right?"

  "All right? Yes, of course, only I'm scared. I have never baked for anybody but homefolks and maybe a few picnics before we came west. I guess I can do it."

  "Of course you can."

  "Have you filed on a claim?"

  He glanced out the window. Wherever he looked somebody was digging or building. "No," he said, at last, "I haven't. There's one away up the canyon I want to look at. Long ago I wandered up there with my father, and he fancied one piece of ground. Said it wasn't much but would make a man a good living."

  "You don't want to be rich?"

  "You know? I've thought about that and I really don't know. Once I thought I did. Now I am not sure."

  Suddenly curious, she asked, "What do you want, Mr. Trevallion?"

  He accepted the coffee she poured for him. For a moment he was silent, shying away from the question. After all, whatdid he want?

  Once he could have said he wanted to find and kill the men who killed his parents. Now he was no longer sure, and his good sense told him that was a negative goal. What did he want? Did he want anything? Had he become an empty man, drifting just to find and kill when he no longer wished it?

  "An awfully nice man came by yesterday. He had coffee with me. His name was Will Crockett."

  "I know him. He offered me a job."

  "He seemed nice. What does he do?"

  "Owns a mine, a pretty good one, from what I hear. He has the reputation of being an honest man."

  "He told me if I wanted a partner he had capital to invest, but I told him I already had a partner."

  The room was warm with the smell of freshly made coffee and baking. Looking out the window he could see a half-dozen buildings going up, some of stone like the bakery, some frame. "If the boom holds," he said, "there will be ten thousand people here in another year."

  "So many?"

  "Aye. Just look at them. You've only to keep baking and you'll be rich." He glanced around. "Keep your eyes open for an older man or woman, a strong one. You're going to need help."

  "That reminds me. I met a woman I like. She runs a boarding house."

  "Eilley Orrum?"

  "Yes. She's a Scot, isn't she?"

  "Highland, and proud of it. She's been married a time or two-Mormons, I understand-and she's ambitious."

  "Have you seen her 'peep-stone' as she calls it? It's a crystal ball."

  "I've heard of it." He finished his coffee and got up. "I'll be back for the pie."

  He rode up the canyon and staked his claim.

  Trevallion had first come to the place with his father. A trickle of water ran in the streambed, and they tried a few pans and found color. Then they sat down and shared some biscuits and jerky.

  "There's mineral," his father said, "if we don't find what we want in California, we may come back here."

  Now Trevallion was back, alone. Ten years later and a thousand years older, or so it seemed.

  On the site where he and his father had first tried the stream, he made camp. Several gnarled and ancient cedars had grouped to offer shelter behind their thick trunks and twisted branches. The mountain lifted steeply behind him and there was no way he could be taken from the rear.

  He built his fire back under the edge of the trees and set up a large, flat rock for a reflector. After he started his coffee, he got out the gold pan he bought at Spafford Hall's, his own having been lost swimming the Yuba.

  As it was a new pan, he heated it over the fire until it took on a dull red glow to give it a proper burn. Then he dunked it into the creek. This removed the oily film but also gave the pan a dark blue shade that enabled the gold particles to show up much better.

  When the coffee was ready, he sat back under the trees, chewed on some jerked meat, and listened to the sound of the creek and the stirring of wind in the cedars. He had never been much of a camp cook, rarely taking time to prepare a meal. When he had finished eating he left the coffeepot on a rock amid the coals and went back to the stream.

  Filling the pan nearly full of gravel, he held it just beneath the surface of the water, and holding the pan with one hand, he broke up the few lumps of clay with the other, meanwhile throwing out the larger rocks.

  Then, holding the pan just beneath the surface he proceeded to swirl the water about, first in one direction, then in the other, to settle the larger pieces. Lifting the pan clear of the water, he tipped it slightly to allow the sand and dirt that was in suspension to trickle over the edge of the pan. A few sharp blows on the edge of the pan helped to settle the gold particles.

  By repeating the process he soon had left only the heavy sands and gold. With tweezers he picked out the more obvious fragments, then put the material aside to dry and started again.

  He worked the afternoon through, and in four hours of hard work, handling six to seven pans an hour, he netted approximately four dollars, which was good for the time and the place.

  At Spafford Hall's he had bought a half sack of barley, and he fed a little to the mule, frying some bacon for himself. Adding water, he heated up the coffee.

  With his cup of coffee in his hand, he left the fire and walked out to study the rock formations and drift along the stream. That stream, he surmised, would run only part of the year, and possibly only until the snow melted off. He walked back to his fire, convinced he had best use it while he could.

  He went back to the fire and poked sticks into the flames. Suddenly irritated, he put down his cup. What was he doing here, anyway? He could pan out a living on this creek, but was that what he wanted? Why not take the job Crockett offered? That was a living, too, and if prospects looked good, he might ask for a piece of the operation for his services would be in demand.

  He poked more sticks in the fire, then sat down under the cedars and refilled his cup. He told himself he no longer wished to kill anyone, not even those who so richly deserved it; yet here he was, like an old hound on the scent, following a haphazard trail because he knew nothing else.

  He had done just what he had been warned against. He had allowed the hunt, the thirst for revenge, to take up his whole life. What he should do was to leave here, to go back east, somewhere far from all this, and drive it from his mind.

  For days now he had been obsessed with a growing feeling of discontent that left him depressed and restless. Moreover, he had been warned on several occasions that men were inquiring for him. He was a man with many acquaintances and no close friends, and the possibility of anybody asking about him was slight.

  Unless the hunted had now become the hunters.

  If so, why? Who would know about him? Who could? True, two of that crowd had been killed, but everyone who knew Rory had known that sooner or later he would be killed. He was not only a card-cheat but a clumsy one. He was also a quarrelsome man.

  As for Skinner, he had come west with Rory, and they had been associated in various crimes along the river and the way west. Skinner had known that his old companion had been killed.

  Trevallion recalled the day they met on the trail. Skinner had been riding toward him and Trevallion had recognized him at once. Trevallion drew up, waiting.

  Skinner pulled up, warily.

  "Hello, Skinner."

  "You know me?"

  "You were a friend to Rory. You came from Missouri together."

  Skinner steadied his horse. Every instinct told him this was trouble, but he had no idea why.

  "Who are you?"

  "You wouldn't remember. I was only a youngster, Skinner, and I didn't have a gun. Also I was too scared."

  Skinner let his right hand fall to his thigh, within inches of his gun. "I don't know what you're talkin' about."

  "It was a camp by the river, Skinner. There were two wagons."


  Skinner's mouth was dry and he felt sick inside. A thief and occasional murderer, he had shied from crimes against women, but that night, with that whiskey they'd been drinking-

  "What d' you want?" His voice was hoarse. He was not worried. He was too good with a gun. Nevertheless, that night had haunted him, and for some reason it had kept him looking over his shoulder for years.

  "I killed Rory, Skinner. He was caught cheating but that wasn't the reason."

  Skinner was poised for it. He was ready. He had chosen his target, right over the belt buckle.

  "Where'd the whiskey come from, Skinner?"

  The sudden, unexpected question disconcerted him. "Why ... ! Why, I'm damned if I know," he said honestly. "All of us were short. We were holding nothing."

  "How much did you get out of it, Skinner?"

  Skinner spat angrily. "Not a damn thing! Somebody yelled an' ... well, we taken out."

  "I know you did, Skinner. I was there. I saw you run, and I saw a man climb into the wagon. He killed my mother, Skinner, whatever was left to kill. And he got the money-box. I want his name, Skinner."

  So that was how it was? Skinner had suspected as much. They'd been tricked, the lot of them, they'd been used. "If I knew," he said, "I'd kill the-"

  "He fed you whiskey, got you all drunk, got you to do the dirty work, and then he got away with everything." He paused just a moment. "But you were there, Skinner. You were one of them."

  "Look," Skinner protested, "I-" He went for his gun.

  Trevallion shot him.

  Skinner completed the draw, but the strength was suddenly gone from his hand, and the gun slipped from his fingers.

  "Damn you!" Skinner said. "I'm goin'! I'll get-"

  "Skinner? I know where I put that bullet. You aren't going anywhere, Skinner."

  Deliberately, Trevallion rode around him and started up the trail. At the crest of the low hill, he turned in his saddle and looked back.

  Skinner was lying face down on the ground, and his horse had walked off a few steps.

  Nobody had associated him with the killing of Skinner. The body had been found, he later learned, several days after. It lay on the grass, a drawn pistol lying at hand. Skinner was known. It was decided he had been killed in a gunfight or by some intended victim.

  Trevallion had felt no elation. There was no satisfaction, only a dull heaviness within him. Long ago, as a boy, he had told himself he would kill them all, but now he no longer wanted to ... Yet he was here, and he was here because sooner or later he knew the prospects for loot would bring them to the Comstock. They were among the vultures who followed booms to pray on the unwary, the unguarded, and the innocent.

  Darkness had settled over the canyon. Trevallion banked his fire and spread his bed under the cedars.

  For a long time he lay looking up at the few stars he could see through the cedars.

  That little girl, the one he'd held so tight, stifling her cries so they might not be murdered, too, she lost both her parents that night. It was bad enough for a boy, but much worse for a girl.

  Grita, that was her name. Marguerita Redaway, called Grita for stort.

  He had said he was going to marry her.

  He smiled up into the cedars, thinking of it. What had become of her? Where was she now? Probably dead...

  Anyway, marrying him would have been a poor bargain.

  Chapter X

  The man in the gray suit leaned back in his chair and placed the fingertips of his two hands together. "Mademoiselle Redaway, you do not seem to understand. You have nothing, or next to nothing. Your aunt was in debt, very heavily in debt. The chateau must be sold, the horses as well.

  "You will have one thousand American dollars, and some worthless mining stock. Of course, you will have whatever personal effects she left. That is all."

  "I shall need no more."

  "You do not seem to understand. No doubt the money seems a great sum to you, but living as you have it will last no time at all, and you will be penniless.

  "It could be invested, and you could realize a small sum from it each year, but I think-"

  "Uncle Andre, you worry too much. Please don't. I shall be all right. I have made my decision."

  "And that is?"

  "I shall be an actress."

  Andre dropped his hands to the arms of his chair and sat forward. "An actress! But that is impossible. You have no training. And it isn't quite the life I should choose-"

  She laughed. "But you are not choosing, Uncle Andre. I am!"

  "Need I remind you that you are under age?"

  The smile left her face. "You know that, I know that, but need anyone else? You are not my guardian. You are not a blood relative. You were and have been a very good friend. I had hoped you would help me."

  "I? I know few people in the theater, mademoiselle."

  "But you do know some? Rachel, for instance, Rachel Felix?"

  He flushed, and she was amused. "Ah, then youdid know her!"

  "Slightly, mademoiselle, and that was years ago. Many years ago."

  "But if you went to see her? She would know your name?"

  He hesitated. "Well, we were both very young ... It was a long time ago."

  He gave a gesture of dismissal. "It does not matter. You are not an actress. Do you think a professional company, performing every night, could afford some inexperienced girl?"

  She sat down opposite him. "Uncle Andre, it is confession time. When my aunt married the count it was her second marriage. He knew this, but no one else did. Not on this side of the Atlantic."

  "So?"

  "My aunt was for many years an actress. She toured on the American stage, and I with her."

  "You?"

  "My parents were killed when I was eight. I went to live with another aunt, then when I was ten I went to live with Claire and began to appear here and there, always in plays with her. I played children's parts, both boys and girls, and then maids, and finally some quite good roles.

  "When Claire married the count he insisted I drop all that and return to school. It was very easy for me, that school was, so I studied music and the dance as well. Rachel is soon to do a play I know very well, and there is a part, a very small part, that I could do easily."

  "She does not cast her plays, I am sure."

  "She does not-officially. Unofficially I am quite sure she has very much to say."

  "Perhaps, perhaps." He looked around at her as she moved across the room. "Mademoiselle? Did you know Rachel is considering an American tour?"

  "I did."

  "You would go?"

  "Of course. After all, I was born there. And you say I have all that mining stock. Perhaps I should see to my investments."

  "They are nothing, nothing! Most of the mines are unknown, unheard of. Your aunt bought foolishly, just as she loaned money. Why, among those papers there must be fifty notes! Long overdue and uncollectable now."

  "No matter. If I ever get out west again I shall collect them, or try."

  He stood up. "Mademoiselle? There is another thing. You are very young, very fresh. You are also beautiful. I have heard it said that older actresses do not always like to have younger, more beautiful actresses in their plays."

  She shrugged her shoulders. "I have heard Rachel Felix is a very shrewd woman, a good businesswoman. I do not think she will mind if the play is successful."

  When she was home, she took the faded carpetbag he had brought and opened it. Packets of papers! Old letters, notes of money loaned and never repaid, old lists of mining shares for mines no doubt long forgotten, some of them her aunt's possessions, some her own that had been left with her aunt when she went off to school.

  Suddenly among the papers she saw a familiar corner, and spreading the packet of envelopes she extracted it. The date was 1850, almost ten years ago.

  Dear Grita,

  I am in Sacramento, working. It is not very good work but all I could find. My father, too, is killed. Killed by the same
men, although he shot two of them before dying.

  When I sold the wagon and the things from it I found a packet of letters belonging to your father and mother. Some were from a man your father had helped start in business. He is doing very well now. When he found I knew you he asked what he should do with the money and I said to invest it. He said if I would accept part of the responsibility he would do so. This has been done.

  I remain your obed. svt.,

  Trevallion

  Had that been his name? She remembered him only as a boy named Val, who was very strong and very kind and how she had been terribly frightened and he had held her.

  As to the money, she knew nothing of that, and it could not have been much.

  Trevallion-odd, that. No other name, simply Trevallion.

  Had she replied? She could not remember, yet oddly enough she could remember him. He had been a very serious boy, and for his age, very strong. He had helped her father load some things into the wagon, and her father had commented upon it.

  Later, when she was in the company and they were working, she asked an actress who was applying her makeup at the same table, "Aren't you the one who has been to America?"

  "I have been. They are hungry for theater there."

  "Do you know a town called Sacramento? I believe it is in California."

  "It is near San Francisco, I think. There are no large cities but they have found gold there. Have you not heard? Everyone is going. It is said if they like what you do or how you look they shower you with gold nuggets."

  "Better than flowers," another actress commented. "All I ever get is flowers and suggestions."

  "Someday," Grita said thoughtfully, "I shall go there."

  Several times each night Trevallion would awaken and listen. It was a habit he had begun to develop on the way west. At daybreak in the canyon, he was up and panning for gold. The water supply he had was mostly from melting snow, and there would soon be an end to that, so whatever he could find to supplement his small stake would have to be found quickly.

  On the third day he found a pocket under a boulder where the water spilling over created a natural riffle and he netted sixty-six dollars in four pans. As his supplies had run low, he saddled the mule, leaving most of his gear where it was. He rode down the canyon to its junction at Seven Mile and then down Gold Canyon, going by a roundabout route that brought him into town from the north. He had no desire to advertise the location of his camp or his direction of travel.