"Ain't far now," Red said. "They put a few rounds in from here just to mark the spot." He paused suddenly. "Say one round. There it is, only three feet or so from this side."
They stood side by side looking at the beginning of what was to be the cross-cut, like a narrow, arched doorway in the rock.
Jim mopped the sweat from his face. "Hell!" He was exasperated and disappointed. "I was hoping maybe there was an opening all the way through."
In silence they stood, listening to the slow drip of water. It was utterly black where no candlelight shone, and water dripped everywhere. In most of the mines they had pumps going all the time to keep water out of the tunnels. He wanted to get out, to get away. To get back under the stars.
"Red, I don't see how you do it. You must have more guts than a country mule."
"Mined all my born days," Red said. "I've been underground more than I've been on top. My wife's always after me to quit, but what could I do? I don't know anything else."
He turned his head and the light from the candle on his cap shone for an instant into the arch of the cross-cut-"
"Red." Jim's voice was choked. "For God's sake, Red,look at that!"
They turned their candles.
A hand-a white, slim hand, was sticking out of what appeared to be a solid rock wall!
LVIII
Albert Hesketh straightened his gray silk cravat, pulled his vest down, and regarded himself in the mirror with satisfaction. The part in his hair was absolutely straight, every hair in place, his appearance impeccable.
Deliberately, he opened the door and walked down the hall to the elevator. All things were moving to his satisfaction. He was not only pleased with himself, but with the future which opened before him.
He would control the Solomon. By the time he lost control, if he ever did, he would have the mine thoroughly gutted.
Moreover, he had other properties awaiting development. A lot of men were going to become rich on the Comstock, and he would be one of them. George Hearst, they were saying, had already made over a million. It was probably true. Hearst was a shrewd man, and he bought well and worked hard. He had known what he was doing every step of the way.
And so had he. Hesketh permitted himself a complacent smile. His way might be different, but his way had been successful, too.
The dining room was almost empty when he took his usual seat. This was surprising, for this was a night when it began to fill up rather early. It was the custom for those who could afford it to dine at the International on Sunday evening.
The waiter came to take his order, then ventured a comment. "I didn't expect you this evening, sir. I thought you would be up at the Solomon."
Hesketh glanced up. "The Solomon? Why?"
"Well, it is your mine, and everybody is up there, sir. The word is that Mr. Trevallion and Miss Redaway are trapped up there."
Something cold seemed to turn over in the pit of his stomach. So soon? They might even be still alive. No, not hardly. "Oh? I hadn't heard." He paused a moment, knowing what he said would be repeated. "There's been some litigation, you know. Temporarily, at least, I've been denied access.
"Trapped, you say? How could that be? I understood the mine was closed and there were guards."
"I don't know, sir. The whole town's up there. They're very popular people, you know, so everyone who is free has gone up there."
The waiter went off to fill his order and no doubt to spread the word that Albert Hesketh was at dinner, "as usual."
His paper lay unopened beside his plate. Slowly he took the napkin from its ring and placed it in his lap.
Too soon. Altogether, too soon. He had not expected them to be found until tomorrow. The incoming shift would find the roof collapsed on Monday morning, and then there should have been an investigation. What had gone wrong?
He frowned, suddenly furious. He felt the burst of rage and frustration within him. To be balked, to be thwarted in any way sent him into a fury, but outwardly, he appeared as always, cMd, without expression, the master of his destiny. It was so he thought of himself.
He ordered a glass of wine, sipped it slowly. All depended now on what was discovered. Nothing could lead to him, of course. Had he not expressly warned that they not enter Forty-Nine? That had been a nice touch. Rethinking it, he was pleased with himself. Even if they were alive, a possibility he doubted, other steps could be and would be taken.
He must think, must plan. He thought of Waggoner, then dismissed him. No, save him for later. He wanted to save Waggoner for Margrita Redaway. It would serve her right. It was Waggoner, Hesketh believed, who had precipitated the rape and murder back there in Missouri. This was a job for the Ax.
Trevallion was reputed to be good with a gun, but the Ax was better, better than Langford Peel or any of them.
He was having his dessert when the door burst open and a man came in. "They found them! They're alive! They're all right, and they're coming down the hill right now! They're cominghere!"
There was a flurry of excited questions, and from the talk Hesketh gleaned a word here and there.
"... almost through. Trevallion was cutting his way out with a pick. He'd gotten a hole through so's he could get air, then he passed out.
"That's the way I heard it. Had one hell of a time, I guess. Been trapped in there for hours."
"Done apurpose," somebody was saying, "shot down after they went in."
"Who? Ain't hard to figure out. Who stood to gain? Who could get into the Solomon?"
His back was to the speaker and he knew there were people between them. Obviously, the man did not know he was present, or if he did know, did not care.
Hesketh placed his napkin beside his plate and arose very carefully and without turning around went quickly from the room. He did not wait for the elevator but went up the stairs, his heart pounding.
Keep out of sight-out of sight, out of mind. There'd be a flurry of excitement over this, but some other sensation would take it from their minds. In a few days it would be an old story.
How had they discovered the roof had been blasted? He had intended it to look like a natural cave-in, which happened often enough to warrant no comment. Somehow, Waggoner had botched the job. Hesketh swore, and he was not a man given to swearing. He swore slowly and with emphasis. Waggoner was a fool.
The Ax, the Ax was the man he needed.
He'd been only a boy then, a lean, slender boy of sixteen but with a thin edge of viciousness showing, and grown men stepped carefully around him. There had been a man who spoke contemptuously of him back in Missouri, and the Ax had cut him open. Just turned and slashed him across the belly with an Arkansas toothpick.
He was quick as a cat, utterly without mercy, and on tiptoe to resent any injury or slight.
Over the years that had remained the same. The difference was that he had become a dandy. He dressed carefully now, made every effort to appear the gentleman, and he had become efficient with both pistol and rifle. He combed his curly hair carefully and kept his hands and nails as clean as a girl's.
Hesketh nodded slowly. He must have the Ax. But how to reach him? How to pay him? The Ax was here. He was not only in town, he was in this very hotel.
Trevallion lay on his back in bed, his eyes closed. Once out in the open air he had recovered rapidly. Now he was simply tired.
He relived again that moment when his pick broke through and he felt the rush of air against his face. He had managed a deep breath, then he had enlarged the hole, and lifting Grita with his last strength he held her at the small opening where she could inhale deeply. He had fallen to his knees then, only half-conscious. He remembered a murmur of voices from somewhere, but he could not rise. It might be delirium.
It had taken them only minutes to make an opening large enough to get him out. Once in the open air he did not want to move, he just wanted to breathe, to breathe long and deeply.
Grita had come through it even better than he. Of course, she had not worked as hard or as
much. She was at the hotel now, with Mary.
He lay with his eyes closed, tired in every muscle, but relaxed, thinking.
This had been a definite attempt to kill them both. The time had been well-chosen, the holes drilled, the charges planted, knowing they would inspect the mine. And that note, warning them not to enter Forty-Nine. As had been guessed, that would be all that was needed to arouse their curiosity.
In that loose formation where slabs were flaking off constantly, only a small charge or two was needed. Finding the pick, left by some miner's carelessness, had saved them.
Who?
He sat up suddenly. There in the tunnel, toward the end, every swing of the pick was a major effort, when he swung, struck home, slowly recovered, and swung again.
He was stupid with fatigue, lack of oxygen, and exhaustion of spirit, and still something within him drove him on to try, and try again. How long he had stayed there at the face he did not know. Again and again he struck with the pick, sometimes with seemingly no effect, sometimes to see whole flakes of rock come away.
During all that time something kept nagging at his awareness, something striving for acknowledgment, for recognition. His brain was a vast, empty void, it seemed, where only the one thought remained, to keep trying. Yet from somewhere that nagging something, a shadowy face, a thin, pale face with strange blue eyes and a voice saying 'May I see that?'
See what? There had been a man in a carefully tailored suit, a man looking for Margrita Redaway, a man who--
The same man. They were one and the same. The man in the street who wanted to see the gold doubloon and the man he had discovered in Margrita's hotel room were the same man.
He shook his head to clear it. Now wait a minute. Think it through. If the faces were the same, what of that other face, half-seen in the dark by the glow of a burned-down camp-fire? The face of a man who stood over Margrita's father and shot him dead?
The same man.
Trevallion swung his feet to the floor and reached for his socks. Slowly, carefully, he dressed, and as he dressed he put it all together.
The several attempts to kill him, at least one by Waggoner. And Waggoner had been one of them. Waggoner had money. Where did he get it? He never worked, but he was always supplied with cash. The obvious answer was that somebody who had money was giving it to him to keep him around where he could be used.
Trevallion finished dressing and reached for his gun-belt.
It was not there.
Then he remembered. He had removed it when working in the mine. Unless somebody had brought it out, it was still there.
He rummaged around in his duffle bag and came up with another gun, the one that he had found in the leaves after the man fled who had killed his father. On the butt was carved a name:A.X. Elder.
He thrust the gun down in his waistband and went out, closing the door carefully behind him.
Waggoner and the other man, the instigator of it all, Albert Hesketh. It had to be. It fitted.
An hour earlier, across town, Jacob Teale heard the story of the rescue of Trevallion and Margrita from the Solomon.
They must have gone to the Solomon, of course! They had been going there when she suggested that he have something to eat, that they'd be right back. He could have been the only person who knew they were going to the mine. Right after that he had been attacked by two strangers, and without warning.
There were two other beds in the room, but both were empty. Jacob Teale sat up carefully and swung his feet to the floor. His clothes were hung very neatly over a chair and he dressed himself, praying neither the nurse nor the doctor would come in before he got out.
He belted on his gun, checked the loads, then took up his rifle.
By the time he reached the International, his knees were buckling. He got through the door and crossed the room to the nearest table, where he sat down quickly.
A waiter came over to him. "Sir? Your rifle, sir? We don't permit them in this room."
Teale's eyes held the faintest flicker of a smile. "I won't keep it here long. Can you get me a drink?"
"Whiskey, sir?"
"Rum, I think. Some of that Haitian rum. Always wanted to try it and never have. When I was a boy I used to hear a lot about rum."
"Yes, sir. Just a minute, sir."
Teale leaned back and closed his eyes. Weak, he was weaker than a cat. Thank God, they had that elevator. It had never seemed of much account before. He had disdained it. In fact, he had never ridden an elevator in his life.
He heard the waiter coming and looked around. "I'm going to change my order."
"Yes, sir?"
"You know how to make a Kill Devil?"
"A what, sir?"
A black man who was setting the next table turned around. "I know how to make one. Let me make it for the gentleman."
Jacob Teale looked up. "Two parts light rum, one part brandy, a bit of honey, and just a pinch of ginger. Is that the way you make it?"
"Yes, sir. Sometimes there's a discussion about how much ginger, sir,"
"Just a pinch, no more."
As the black man left, the waiter said, "Your favorite drink, sir?"
"No." He spoke carefully, hitching himself a little higher in his chair and feeling a sharp stab of pain. "I never had one in my life. An old man, I worked for him long ago in Louisiana, he drank Kill Devils when I was a boy. Always was wishful to try one."
He sat very still, holding himself tight against the pain. When the black man came with the Kill Devil he looked at Teale, then looked again, more sharply. "Are you all right, sir? Would you like me to call a doctor?"
Teale smiled. "I've had one," he said.
The Kill Devil tasted good. He tried another sip. He watched the black man setting another table and he sipped his drink carefully.
"Have you seen Mr. Hesketh this morning?"
"He was in for breakfast, sir. I have not seen him since then." He looked at him again. "Aren't you the gentleman who got shot outside a few days ago?"
"I am afraid I am."
He closed his eyes, resting them. His head ached with a dull, heavy ache, and his mouth tasted bad. Or had until he drank the Kill Devil.
He finished his drink and seeing the elevator come down he crossed, got aboard, and went up to the floor where Albert Hesketh had his room. He walked down the hall, rapping on the door. There was no response.
With his bowie knife he forced the bolt back, entered the room, and closed the door again. Then he crossed the room and sat down in a dark corner.
He was tired. He was very, very tired. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, his rifle across his knees.
When Mary opened the door, Trevallion was there. "How is she?"
"She's been asking the same question about you. Come in."
She closed the door behind him, and he heard Grita call out, "Who is it, Mary?"
She came out and, seeing him, crossed the room, her hands outstretched. "Val! You look wonderful!"
"I don't believe that. Not the way I feel. My mother used to say, when somebody looked very bad, that he 'looked like he'd been dragged through a knothole' and that's the way I feel."
"That awful place. I'll never go in a mine again."
"Grita? It was intended to kill us, you know."
"I know."
"And it was Hesketh. Grita, I know him now. It all began to come to me down there in the Forty-Nine. He was the man who killed your father back there in Missouri."
"Are you sure, Val? I've always had a feeling I'd seen him before."
"Be careful, Grita. Don't go out anywhere without Mary and Manfred. Four eyes are better than two, and six even better. This isn't over."
He glanced at her. "Do you remember Waggoner? The man who made trouble for you up in Six Mile? He was one of them, too."
"I know he was. He told me. There was some way he said we looked at him, my mother and I, that made him hate us. I'm sure it's all imaginary, because we neverlooked at anybody exce
pt in passing. He's a brute."
"And he's still around. There's another man, too. A good-looking blond man. I don't know him but he knows me, I think."
"I wish it was all over."
"Be careful."
She was so very lovely. He stood, wanting suddenly to reach out and take hold of her, but he did nothing of the kind. "We will never have peace until they are gone," he said, "and all these years I've known this day would come."
"Be careful yourself, Val, and come back when you can. In fact," she added, "I'll be at the theater tonight. Why don't you come by for me when the show's over?"
"Depend on it. I'll be there."
He went down into the street, glancing into the dining room as he went out. He saw no one. He paused a moment surveying the street with a quick glance. Nobody. He went down the street to the bakery.
Melissa got up when he came in. "Trevallion! Are you all right?"
He shrugged. "Why not? It was just like doing two weeks work in two days, that's all. Jim been around?"
"He's around, somewhere. He's worried about you."
Trevallion ordered coffee and sat watching the street. It was a warm, busy day. Ore wagons went by, men on foot and horseback. Two beautifully dressed women passed on the opposite side of the street accompanied by a man in a dove-gray suit.
The town was changing. He could feel it. He looked over at Melissa. "The wild old days are gone," he said. "It will not be the same again."
"I know." Her tone was almost regretful. "Some of the boys are heading for Pioche and some for the Reese River diggings."
"They can have them. No more wild frontier towns for me. I'm settling down."
"With her?"
He glanced at her. "You women, always romantic. What makes you think she'd have me?"
"She will. She's no fool."
He waited, thinking. Yes, that was the way it should be, and deep inside him he had known it ever since that long ago tune when he had held a trembling, frightened little girl in his arms, trying not to be frightened himself because he had to help her be brave. So much had happened, and so much had still to happen.
Comstock Lode (1981) Page 40