He remembered the look on Waggoner's face when he had interrupted him in his meeting with Margrita. There was some brutal, indomitable force in the man, a man who could envision no defeat, no failure.
Turning, Trevallion looked again at the mine, at the cabin. Then he started down the slope. He went first to the International.
Teale was in the lobby, and he arose from his chair and crossed the room to intercept him.
"Trevallion? You can't see her. Not now."
"Is she busy? It's quite important."
His features were without expression. "She's up there with him, with Hesketh. She asked not to be disturbed."
Hesketh? Alone with Albert Hesketh?
Trevallion started forward but Teale laid his rifle across in front of him. "Like I said, Trevallion. She asked not to be disturbed."
When she returned to the sitting room of her suite, Albert Hesketh was seated on the edge of a chair, his hat on his knees.
"You wished to see me?"
He stood up. "I do, of course. You are an uncommonly beautiful woman, Margrita."
It was the first time he had addressed her by her given name, and she did not like it. If he was aware of her reaction, he indicated no evidence of it. "Thank you," she acknowledged.
The man who called himself Albert Hesketh had never in his life had tune for the social graces. He had rarely talked to women and, generally speaking, despised them. He thought about them rarely and had in his mind several opinions of what they were like. His own fight had been for money and position, and he was quite sure that was what any intelligent person wanted, and women most of all.
"Margrita, as you may know, I have become a very rich man, and I shall be even richer." There was something in the way he spoke that irritated her, but she made no reply. "Since our first meeting I have come to know you, and you are just the wife I have been-"
"What?" She stared at him in total disbelief. "Are you proposing?"
He smiled. "Why, as a matter of fact, I am." He was, as he had told her, a very wealthy man, and these actresses were- "Yes, of course. I plan to build a home here, the most beautiful home. Of course, I shall have one in San Francisco, too. We must enertain, you know. There will be financiers out from New York or London, and you are just the woman to preside in such a place."
He sounded so smug she almost laughed. She was young in years, but in her few years she had seen more than most and had looked upon the actions of people with the eyes of one gifted in the analysis of character. Each one might be a part she would one day be called upon to play, and she had always felt there was more to be learned from observing the characteristics and motivations of people than in any other way.
"Why?" she asked.
He was startled. "Why... what?"
"Why do you wish to marry me?"
He smiled. "You are beautiful."
She was amused. "Perhaps, Mr. Hesketh, but that is very little on which to build a marriage. There are many beautiful women." She turned her head to look at him. "And why should I wish to marry you?"
Why? The question irritated him. Why? Why not? Of course, she would wish to marry him! He was a wealthy man. He was somebody. He was attractive, and he was a coming man. Yet when he sought for words to explain himself he found none, and that irritated him even more. He had assumed-
"You would have a beautiful home," he persisted. "You would have position. You would be somebody."
"But I am somebody, Mr. Hesketh. I amme. I like being me, and I need nobody to make me somebody. I need no setting. As for a home, I can build my own. As for position, each of us finds his own."
He smiled a tight little smile that could not quite hide the anger in his eyes. "To build a home, Margrita, is very expensive. It is not-"
He tightened his lips. Didn't this little fool realize what marriage to him would mean? Couldn't shesee? He fought to maintain that icy control on which he prided himself. "Don't you see? You wouldn't have to parade yourself on the stage any more. You wouldn't have to-"
"Mr. Hesketh? You don't understand. I like the theater. It is exciting and interesting to me. If I leave, it will only be for love, and because I am very sure that I have found the right man. Whether he is wealthy or not would never be a consideration, just that he's someone with whom I could be happy, someone I could respect."
Margrita Redaway had known many men, most of them only in passing, but she sensed there was something here that was totally beyond her experience.
For the first time she realized that Albert Hesketh was not very bright. She had thought of him as intelligent, perhaps shrewd in a business way, but now she realized, quite suddenly, that he was so completely self-centered as to be obtuse, blind to the feelings of others, and concerned only with people as they affected his plans. Yet there was something else, too, some quality that made her uneasy, unsure of herself. There was something in the man- something-something that was wrong, that was out of kilter.
He was staring at her. Couldn't this little fool understand? He was offering tomarry her!
Underneath his impatience something else was stirring within him, something that held panic. He had to marry her. It was the only way out, unless-
"Perhaps I shall build a home of my own, Mr. Hesketh. Possibly in California. There are some beautiful places there."
"If you like," he said, "we could-"
"No, Mr. Hesketh. It is not 'we.' If what you have been doing is considered a proposal of marriage, my answer is no. Very positivelyno, Mr. Hesketh."
He stared at her, shocked. Until a few days ago he had not seriously considered marriage at all, although in the back of his mind he realized it was a part of the total picture he wished to present. But to propose marriage to this, thisactress, and to be refused-
"You're being a fool!" he said sharply. "A complete fool! How long do you think you can continue this parading around? Far better to marry and have a home."
"Perhaps, Mr. Hesketh, perhaps you are right. I may do just that; if the right man should ask me I might quit tomorrow, as much as I enjoy my work.
"As for money," she added, "I have nothing to worry about." She flashed him a smile. "Haven't you heard, Mr. Hesketh?I own the Solomon!"
He stiffened sharply as if slapped across the mouth. His throat tightened so he felt as if he might strangle, clutched as he was by a blind fury. His face went white, and when he tried to speak the words would not come. Finally they did come, choking and stumbling.
"No! No, you do not own the Solomon! You will never own it! It is mine!Mine!"
She was very cool, very quiet. "When Mr. Crockett was found, wounded and sick, he willed his portion of the mine to me, Mr. Hesketh, as I am sure you are aware." She looked up at him. "And I had ten shares of my own, you know. That leaves me in control, Mr. Hesketh, and I believe it was you who first put up a sign to keep others away. I am afraid that is just what I must do, Mr. Hesketh. I must ask you not to trespass on the premises."
"You ... you can't do that."
"If I am not mistaken, Mr. Hesketh, that sign is even now being put in place and my guards are replacing yours."
It was a struggle to retain his composure, yet so much was at stake. "Don't you see? If we were married we would own it all! Just you and I!"
"I am new to Nevada, Mr. Hesketh, and I may be mistaken, but in many states you, as my husband, would control it all. I have no doubt you have thought of that, but the answer isno."
She glanced in the mirror, touched her hair lightly, and, looking at him in the mirror, she said, "I have no doubt you will do very well on your share, Mr. Hesketh. We shall work the mine with great care."
She turned to face him. There was something, something about him... something not quite normal. Something about him had always left her uneasy.
The derringer was in her purse, across the room from where she stood.
She touched her hair one more time, then turned and took her wrap from the back of the chair. "I am afraid, Mr. Hesketh, that you must
excuse me." She crossed the room to her purse, feeling his eyes upon her. "I have people waiting." She stooped and took up the purse and turned to face him, opening the purse as she did so and taking out a handkerchief. "Of course, if you wish to sell?"
"No!" His voice was hoarse with emotion. "I'll not sell! It is mine! It is all mine! You will see! I shall have it all!"
He hesitated a moment, staring at her. She replaced her handkerchief in her purse and took hold of the derringer.
"My friends are waiting, Mr. Hesketh, and I believe we have concluded our business."
He turned toward the door and when he reached it he turned to look back. "You have been very foolish," he said, "but no doubt you believe you know what you are doing. I am sorry for you."
He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. For a moment she stood very still, clutching the butt of the small gun. Then, slowly, she relaxed.
He had gone. It was over. What was it about him that bothered her?
He was insane. No, that was ridiculous. Yet the thought persisted. In any event he was strange. His smile never seemed natural; it seemed set, forced, as if he were telling himself to smile.
She shrugged. She would probably not see him again, nor was there reason for it. She snapped shut her purse and turned to the door.
Albert Hesketh walked directly to his suite and placed his hat on the table; then he sat down, knees together, feet side by side. His folded hands rested on his knees, and he started to think.
There was an answer. There had to be an answer. At this stage, with victory so close, he must not be defeated. He must think ... think ...
She must be killed. Killed, of course. He had decided upon that some time ago, even before he had thought of her as a possible wife. He would, he told himself, have killed her anyway, eventually. The thing was what to do now, for just killing her would do him nothing but harm, unless--
Unless the mine were left in his hands while her estate was settled. Seated, his hands folded in his lap, he considered that possibility. It could be done if there was no suggestion that he was responsible for her death, and of course, he would take precautions to see that nothing of the kind occurred.
The chances were that she had told nobody of her action here today, unless it was Trevallion. She might have told him, although he doubted that. One thing he had noticed about Margrita Redaway was that she was closemouthed. She did not tell her business to every comer.
Killing her was something he wanted done, yet it would do no good unless he were left in control of the mine. Even if he eventually lost control, there might be a year or more in the meantime, and during such a time he could siphon off much of its wealth. The machinery for that was already in operation while Crockett was still around.
He would not go near the mine, and therefore there would be no one to say he could not go there. He did not wish to be publicly turned away, for that would arouse talk and would be generally knpwn. If not generally known he could, if anything happened to Margrita Redaway, brush it off as mere nonsense.
The problem was how, when, and where. There was also the problem of obtaining what papers she had and discovering just who had witnessed Will Crockett's last testament. Yet, even that did not matter. Accept the fact that the mine was willed to Margrita, but that she had transferred it to him.
Trevallion would know better, but Trevallion would be dead.
He took out his watch and checked the time. It would soon be time for dinner, and he must be there, in his usual place.
A mine, perhaps the Solomon? Margrita Redaway had mentioned wanting to descend into a mine, and women were said to be bad luck in a mine. Suppose she was the one who had bad luck? Once in a mine there was so much that could be done.
Possibly she and Trevallion together? He smiled. That would be a fortunate coincidence. He could just hear the old miners commenting that he, of all people, should have known better.
That new Forty-Miner tunnel. They were having trouble with oozing mud there, anyway. It waa a dangerous spot, but there was rich ore back where it ran close to the old workings. Crockett had always wanted to open up the old workings as he had seen samples that looked good. Albert Hesketh had deliberately talked him into delaying that project.
He smiled again, thinking of it. Albert Hesketh had done pretty well, up to now. Yet the fat was in the fire and he had to act.
Santley. He had never trusted Santley, although the man had worked faithfully. Santley was an apple-polisher, and once he realized, as he was sure to, that a new hand might be in control he would seek to curry favor. Santley had seen the samples from the new workings, and only last week Hesketh had found him examining old samples from the old workings.
None of them trusted him, so he would simply let it work for him. If this plan did not work, he had another. He sat down at his desk and wrote swiftly.
Mr. Santley:
If Miss Redaway suggests going into the mine, please advise her not to enter Forty-Nine. At all costs, keep her out of that area. Say nothing to arouse her curiosity-Albert Hesketh.
He smiled as he looked at the note. If that would not do it, nothing would. And there was no better place. If anything was said, had he not tried to keep them out?
LI
Waggoner stood up and stretched. "You boys take it easy. I got me a little job to do."
The man with the scarred hand looked up from the cards. "Never figured to see you working in a mine, Wag. What's come over you?"
Waggoner smiled. "Pays well. At least my kind of work does."
"What about Trevallion? We can take him any time we want, Wag. Sure, he's supposed to be good, but against three of us?"
"You jus' set back an' let me handle it. Maybe none of us will have to. There's more than one way to chop wood but the thing most needful is a sharp Ax."
"Ax?"
"Why not? Who's any better? Peel? Not on your life! Nobody's any better and nobody has more reason. He's in it as deep as any of us."
"I ain't seen him in years. How'd you know where to find him?"
"I got ways." Waggoner suddenly sat down. He pushed his hat back on his head and poured whiskey into a waterglass. "Or somebody does. Les, who knew about that? Back there in Missouri, I mean?"
"Hell! Nobody knew! How could anybody?"
"Somebody does know, Les, somebody knows ever' damn one of us."
Les placed his cards carefully on the table. "You mean Trevallion?"
"Him, maybe. That's why we're here. But somebody else, too."
"Who could, Wag? You ain't thinkin'. Who was there? Baldy an' Pete were killed by the feller at the blue wagon."
"That was Trevallion's pa."
"All right. That's Baldy an' Pete. Trevallion's killed Rory and Obie Skinner. That's four gone. There's us, that makes seven, and the Clean-Cutter, which is eight. That's all there was."
Waggoner tossed off his whiskey, made a face, and refilled his glass. "Where'd the booze come from, Les? We were broke, remember?"
The other man looked up from the gun he was cleaning. "We got the booze from that busted wagon, don't you recall? The one with the busted wheel. I was wantin' a drink real bad and somebody says there was a jug in that busted-down wagon. Sure enough, there was. That was how we all got liquored up."
"Who tol' you about that jug?" Waggoner asked.
"Hell! How should I remember? There was a lot of us around. Somebody said it was there, that's all I know. I wanted whiskey an' I wasn't about to ask no questions."
"Same with me," Les said. "What difference does it make, anyway?"
"Maybe none atall. Maybe a lot. What I'm askin' myself is how that whiskey happened to be there in an empty wagon? Does somebody leave a jug o' whiskey just asettin'?"
"How should we know? What the hell, whiskey is whiskey. I take it where I can get it."
"That's what he figured."
"Who?"
"Boys, we been euchered. We been set up an' taken. We done what we done but somebody else got the m
oney. Did you get any money, Les?"
"Hell, no."
"Well, neither did I. Neither did anybody unless it was him who left the whiskey there. Who was it yelled that somebody was comin'? That a whole gang was comin'?"
Les suddenly swore viciously. "Damn it! Damn it all to hell!"
"See? Somebody suckered us into it, somebody got away with all that money."
Rig, who was cleaning his gun, began to reload. "That's past. What the hell? So we were suckered? That was years ago."
"I don't like it," Les complained. "I don't like being played for no sucker."
"Think back, both of you. We got to remember who told us about that liquor."
"What the hell difference does it make now? That's over an' done with."
"It makes a difference," Waggoner said, "because he's here. He's right here in Washoe."
They stared at him. He tossed off his drink. "I got a job to do." He thumbed a roll of bills from his pocket. "See that? It's from him. It's got to be from him."
"Then you know him!"
"No, I don't. I don't know him at all, but he knows me. He knows you all, too. He knows who we are an' what we done."
Les picked up the cards again and began to shuffle them for another turn at solitaire. He started placing the cards, then looked up. "He had to be there. He had to be in Missouri at the time. He had to be right there in town." He glanced at the man cleaning the gun. "Got any ideas, Rig?"
"Uh-huh, but you've got to remember, there must have been two dozen wagon trains outfitting to head west, and there were others just like us who were hangin' around to see what we could latch onto." He put his gun into its holster. "What difference does it make? If he hasn't said anything up to now, he ain't liable to. Anyway, that was years ago. How they goin' to prove it?"
"Lynchers don't need much proof," Les replied.
"You give it thought," Waggoner said, "I'm busy. I got a job to do."
"You say he paid you that money? Then you must've seen him."
"One time, several years back. He met me out in the hills and he was all wrapped up so's I couldn't see his face or guess his size, except for height. He got word to me and I met him." Waggoner jerked his head to indicate the east. "Over yonder." He paused again. "He wanted Trevallion killed."
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