Comstock Lode (1981)

by L'amour, Louis

  "If they get what they're after, they'll-"

  She turned. "Please understand me. I do not intend to be robbed, now or ever."

  She got into the stage and the driver stared after her, swore softly, then climbed to his seat and took up the reins.

  There was forest about them now, gathering clouds above. Under the trees, patches of snow; on the shaded side of the road there was a bank of snow. The air was crisp. A few lingering aspen leaves brushed their pale brown palms together in wistful memory of past beauty. The air smelled of pines.

  "More than five thousand wagons working this road now, six to eight horses to the team, sometimes more."

  They climbed steadily, the stage horses at a walk.

  Hesketh had his eyes closed and seemed to be sleeping; Grita was sure he was not. A cold, methodical man, precise in his ways and movements, he gave her the impression of a man who walked a ragged edge, of a man somehow brittle.

  What she knew of acting she had learned by observation. First there had been her natural instincts, followed by suggestions from her aunt and friends of her aunt, then a word here or there from an old-timer, and then studying other performers. Yet most of what she knew she had learned by observing people, picking up their mannerisms, gestures, and expressions. By watching people who were self-conscious, assertive, dogmatic, or conniving.

  From the first she had the impression that the face Hesketh turned toward the world was in no way the true man. Always he seemed in control, in command. His decisions were quick, sharp, definite. His workers, she suspected, were afraid of him, and she detected, or believed she detected, a streak of cruelty under it all. Yet even that cruelty took second place to his contempt for all about him.

  Now he seemed asleep, but there was no repose in his hands and their subtle, unconscious movements. His right hand he kept near the opening in his coat. Without doubt he had a gun.

  The stage rumbled and rattled over the hard road, slowing occasionally for a patch of sand or a slight grade.

  "Getting deeper into the wilderness," Manfred commented, and Grita knew she was being warned. She needed no warning. Several times her fingers had touched the derringer.

  "Better let me handle it," Manfred said, quietly.

  "It would not be fair. The trouble is mine."

  "You are a woman."

  "If women can be killed, women can fight. My own mother was murdered. She had no chance to fight."

  "You never told me."

  "There was no reason to tell anyone. It was a long time ago, in Missouri."

  Albert Hesketh opened his eyes. Suddenly she was sharply aware of his attention. "In Missouri?" he said.

  "We were starting west. My father had bought a covered wagon, and we were ready to go."

  His eyes were unblinking, but his lips smiled a little. "You are sure it was murder? After all, you must have been very young."

  She looked right into his eyes. "It was murder. I was there."

  They were all looking at her now. The heavy man in the brown suit shifted a little. "Ugly," he said, "an ugly experience for a young girl. It is fortunate you were not killed, too."

  "I would have been if it had not been for a boy who was with me. He hid me."And held me, she thought.

  For the first time she really looked at that memory with all her attention. He had held her. Held her tight, shielding her eyes, whispering to her. For the first and perhaps the only time in her she she had felt completely safe, completely secure, protected. Her parents had been killed but he had been there, holding her, calming her, and he had lost a mother, too.

  It was absurd to have such a memory after all these years, but of all her memories it was the most vivid. She remembered the scuffling in the wagons, the muffled cries, the thud of blows, and all the while those strong young arms holding her.

  "You were lucky not to be killed. There were several of them?"

  "Yes. They were renegades, scum that lived along the river, stealing whatever they could."

  "You were lucky," the man in the brown suit repeated, "they would not have wanted a witness to be left for a crime as vicious as that. A rope is too good for men like that."

  Hesketh turned his head to look out the window, and suddenly she remembered where she was and what was about to happen. She felt in her purse for the derringer. It was there, cool and strong to the touch.

  "How far is it to Strawberry?" she asked him.

  He glanced at her. "A long way yet," he said.

  They overtook a long line of wagons, rolling up clouds of dust. The driver cracked his whip over the horses, and they raced on by to reach a small roadside station before the teamsters. The stage pulled up, dust sifted over them and past them. There were several horses at the hitching-rail and an Indian sitting down against the wall of the station.

  Hesketh avoided her at the station, walking off by himself, but among the trees and away from the road. The driver came over to her. He jerked his head to indicate Hesketh. "There's an odd one. Keeps to himself."

  He spat. "Canny, though. If I was some of them around Virginia, I'd look to my hole card. Will Crockett isn't the only one he'll have up a tree."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "He's hungry, that one. Hungry like a wolf who will eat until he busts, almost. Just takin' the Solomon from Will won't be enough. He'll want it all, and if I'm any judge, he's fixing to get it all."

  "From what I hear he won't get far with men like Mackay and Fair. Or Sharon, for that matter."

  "He won't try, yet. He'll just eat up the small fry. He hates Sutro. He wanted to get in on that tunnel idea of Adolph's, but no matter how much Sutro needed money to get on with it, he would have no piece of it from Hesketh. He never actually turned him down, just avoided him."

  "If there is a holdup," Grita asked, "where do you think it will happen?"

  He shrugged. "Somewhere between Strawberry and Hope Valley. If it's Pottawattomie Joe, who knows this country, he'll figure us to not use the Hope Valley route. Sometimes we go that way when the snow's deep, but I'm fixin' to turn north and go by way of the Kingsbury Grade.

  "Plenty of trails where a rider can cut across country so they can pick their spot. There's a lot of places where a team can't travel no faster'n a walk, due to the grade."

  With fresh horses they moved on at a good speed. Hesketh had returned to the stage and was the first man aboard. The man in the brown suit had buttoned his coat despite the fact that it was warm inside the stage. He now sat with his back to Grita and half-facing Hesketh. Manfred observed the change but offered no comment to her.

  Now the trail became steeper, winding steadily upward. The snow under the trees was deeper. The air was chilly outside, but inside the stage it was close and warm. After a bit she dozed from time to time, absently wondering about Richard Manfred.

  She knew nothing of him, nor did anybody on the show. He made vague references to companies in which he had worked in the South, was an intelligent and versatile actor and a better than average stage manager. Seemingly he thoroughly understood his business.

  He was a man of medium height who looked taller, with dark hair and a dark, hawklike face, even white teeth and was attractive without being in any way handsome. His wardrobe was modest. He was quiet, unobtrusive, but not communicative about himself or his affairs.

  He was especially good in the olios that followed the last act, in which each of the performers did some kind of specialty act, dancing, singing, or comedy. He seemed to do everything with equal ease, yet where he came from, his age, education, or background remained a mystery. Where some of the actors suffered from self-doubt and insecurity when off stage, Manfred was completely assured.

  The sun's red setting colored the mountainside before them, and the stagecoach mounted a last steep grade and poised at the top of a winding descent. The driver drew up, slowing his team without actually stopping them, looking over the trail before him. He slapped the lines on the horses' backs and started them moving at a faster
clip when a voice called from the trees.

  "Hold 'em right there, Dave!"

  He drew up, taking his time. Hesketh shrank back into the shadows inside the coach. Grita slipped her derringer into her hand.

  "I'm not carrying anything," the driver said mildly, "the box is empty, as you can see."

  "Well, there's always the passengers," the bandit said cheerfully. Two more men had come from the bushes on his right and left.

  "I've got some women aboard, boys," Dave spoke mildly still. "They're play-actresses. You know how the boys in Virginia set store by their shows and such. I just want to warn you boys that you touch one of those womenfolks and you're askin' for a hangin'."

  The man doing the talking, whom Grita guessed might be Pottawottamie Joe, gestured toward the stage with his gun. "You all jus' step out here, nice an' easy like, an' nobody's goin' to get hurt."

  Before a move could be made, Grita spoke. "You have three guns out there, my friend, and we've got six in here. Do you still want us to get out?"

  "The lady's right. You boys just stopped the wrong stage. I suggest you just back off and go to your horses."

  Manfred's gun was in his hand as he spoke. "We don't intend to be robbed. You might get one of us, but we'd get all of you. Now what's it to be?"

  Mary Tucker was holding her gun and so was the man in the brown suit. Grita leaned back, looking at the men inside the stage. "Be very careful, gentlemen," she said, "when you fire, that you direct your aim to the outside. We wouldn't want any accidents now, would we?"

  Albert Hesketh held his gun low, but Grita's derringer was not pointed toward the outside. She was looking right at him.

  Pottawottamie Joe was in a quandary. Never in his long outlaw career had he faced a stagecoach that held as many ready guns. Usually they stepped down and handed over their valuables without question, yet he had no desire to try his luck with a stage filled with guns.

  "You got me euchered, lady," he said cheerfully, "you surely have. Why don't you just go along easy and we'll call it quits?"

  Dave lifted his whip and the team started. He waved at the outlaws and they waved back.

  Albert Hesketh sat slowly back, very watchful. Pottawottamie Joe had struck unexpectedly soon, and he had failed. But who could have expected resistance? And such a show of guns?

  Suddenly he was shaking with fury. That damned woman! That dirty-He fought himself back to normal, still trembling.

  Nobody was looking at him, they were all chattering about the holdup. Only that Redaway girl, she was not talking.

  Where was Waggoner?

  Chapter XXXII

  The burst of fury passed and left Hesketh cold and empty, chilled through and through as if he had been exposed to an icy wind. For a few minutes his thoughts were confused, and he felt like leaping from the coach and running off into the woods.

  His hands gripping his legs above the knees, he fought himself to calmness. The holdup had taken place and Jacob, if he was present, had not acted, which might mean that he still waited upon opportunity.

  Waggoner would be next, but would Waggoner know Jacob? Yet Waggoner would get the shares from the Redaway girl, or would he?

  She had acted with unexpected resolution and quickness of mind. Who would have believed that a mere play-actress could so suddenly bring all those guns into action? If she did the same thing to Waggoner, what could he do?

  Hesketh, calm once more, tried to think it through. Hemust have those shares. He was positive the actress had them. During the months he had worked for Crockett he had examined everything in the company safe, every ledger, every paper, every letter. Tucked away in one of the drawers was a list of people to whom Crockett had sold stock when the company was still in California. Each shareholder Hesketh had tracked down over the months.

  The idea of the holdup had seemed simple enough. He could not recall a case where the people being held up had not been relieved of their valuables without incident, unless there was a shotgun messenger aboard. The stage would be held up, among the things taken would be the shares, and they would be delivered to him.

  Who would have expected a damned fool woman to take charge like that? He could not blame Pottawottamie Joe for backing down. It was the intelligent thing to do. The three guns outside could have riddled the stage, but the guns inside would have blown him out of the saddle and his men as well.

  Waggoner,where was Waggoner?

  With Marcus Zetsev out of the picture, Hesketh had been sure he could make a deal for the shares if they fell into hands other than his. Now it was up to Waggoner.

  Inside the moving coach the passengers were settling down. Talk was dying out. Soon they would be relaxed, off guard, not expecting trouble.

  If Jacob was aboard the coach, which one was he? Hesketh's eyes went from the slim, silent man to the man in the brown suit.

  A bulky, heavy man, was it fat or muscle? Some of the most powerful men he had ever seen looked fat. The man smelled of stale cigar smoke, and he had blunt, strong fingers with the nails cut sharply off. His thick neck bulged against the stiff collar. A heavy gold watch-chain hung from pocket to pocket of his vest, and there was a diamond stickpin in the red tie he wore. When Grita had called Pottawottamie Joe's hand, the man in the brown suit had been very quick to produce a pistol, a .36 Remington.

  Albert Hesketh was suddenly worried. Whowas the man? He had produced that gun almost as if he had expected to need it, without hesitation and with a readiness for battle that surprised Hesketh.

  The sandy-haired man, on the other hand, had sat very quietly, hands relaxed in his lap, not so much as a muscle stirring. Was he frightened? Ready? Or merely watchful to see which way the cat was going to jump?

  He glanced over at Grita. She was relaxed against the back cushion, her eyes closed. Mary Tucker also seemed asleep.

  The stage rumbled on, plunging down steep hillsides, climbing slowly, weaving a precarious way among trees and rocks.

  They pulled up to Strawberry and the doors opened, letting light stream out over the hoofs of the horses and the wheels of the stagecoach. Sleepily, the passengers roused themselves and stepped down from the coach, Manfred lifting a hand to help Mary and Grita.

  "Won't be much time, folks," Dave advised. "Grab yourselves some coffee and a bite, then we go on. We're runnin' behind because of that high water."

  Dane Clyde stood beside him as the passengers went by.

  Dave nodded toward Grita Redaway. "There's a cool one! Never seen the like! She stood ol' Pot Joe right on his ear!" He turned and glanced at Clyde. "Ain't you with her?"

  "I'm in her company," Clyde said. "Miss Redaway goes her own way."

  "I should reckon." He spat. "Take a man with hair on his chest to handle that one. They must've all had their guns in sight, because I never knowed Pot to back off so fast."

  "I had mine out, too," Clyde said quietly. "It was time. And I never shot a gun in anger in my life."

  "Well, you was close enough. Hard to miss at that range, although I seen it done, here an' there."

  Grita went quickly to a table, and Manfred spoke to a waiter. "Miss Redaway is to perform in Virginia City, and she is very tired. If you have time-"

  "An actress? You bet! Say, I heard of her! She's mighty good, ain't she?"

  "The best," Manfred replied. "If you will hurry now?"

  He walked back to the table, pausing en route to glance around the crowded room. Hesketh had disappeared. The man in the brown suit had seated himself at a crowded bench by the simple method of crowding. The man next to him started to object, then seeing the bulk and manner of the newcomer he simply crowded over.

  The floor was a mixture of sawdust and mud, and the room was full with booted men, two-thirds of them visibly armed.

  A hawk-faced man in a battered slouch hat and a torn coat stopped near Manfred. "You come in on that there stage? Any room aboard her?"

  "It's crowded," Manfred said. He pointed to the driver. "Talk to him. You might be
able to ride the top."

  Manfred moved over beside Grita and accepted a cup of coffee without sitting down. His eyes were restless, alive and aware, studying the men in the huge room.

  The slouch hat came back and Manfred asked, "Going with us?"

  "Can't say I am. Too rich for my blood. He wants five dollars to ride on to Washoe and I ain't got but three."

  He started to turn away and Grita spoke. "Please? Do you have a minute?"

  The man stopped, looking around at her. Quickly he removed his hat. "Sorry, ma'am, I didn't see there was a lady present."

  "Do you want to go to Washoe?"

  "Yes'm. I got to git there somehow."

  She gestured toward his gun. "You look like a man who could use one of those. Can you? Will you?"

  "I can, and I will," he spoke softly, "but I never shot no man without cause."

  "There will be trouble before I get to the hotel in Virginia City. Mr. Manfred here can probably handle it, but I'd like him not to be alone."

  "My name's Teale, ma'am. I've come on hard times. Fact is, I've never knowed much but hard times, all my born days. What is it you want?"

  "I want to get to Virginia City safely, and without being robbed. I am Margrita Redaway and I believe there are plans to rob me."

  "A man who'd rob a lady like you," Teale said, "must be pure-dee varmint."

  "I'll give you-"

  "Ma'am, you don't need to give me nothin'. My pi' mammy would turn in her grave did she think I was takin' money for protectin' a lady. You git me on that coach an' nobody ain't goin' to bother you. I'll get my possibles."

  "Wait, have you eaten?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I et the day before yestiddy."

  "You'd better eat now. Get your things and come back."

  "He won't wait, ma'am. I know he won't."

  "He'll wait."

  Teale glanced at her curiously, then walked away. A few minutes later he was back, carrying a rifle and a small, neatly wrapped pack of what appeared to be clothing. Food was on the table and he seated himself and began to eat.