“Drifter, name of Rory. I’ve seen him around.” The bartender poured the beer Trevallion ordered. “I’d steer clear of him. He’s a bad one…cheats, I think. One of these days somebody will catch him at it.”
There was no doubt. A little older, a little harder, but a face he remembered. Trevallion finished his beer, then crossed the room, and when there was an opening, sat in the game.
At Trevallion’s deal Rory pushed the cards toward him and palmed one or more cards in the process. The man beside Trevallion made an involuntary start, so he must also have seen it, but Trevallion said nothing. It would happen again.
When it was Rory’s deal again, the man swept in the cards and gathered them up, and Trevallion said, “What ever became of Skinner?”
Carefully, Rory shuffled the cards into a packet and said, “Skinner? I don’t know any Skinner.”
“Thought you might have,” Trevallion said, “back in Missouri.”
Rory said nothing. He put down the cards and got out a cigar. “Everybody’s been in Missouri,” he said finally.
“You’re right. Some of them come west in wagons, starting from there, only some of them never get started.”
Rory lit the cigar and took up the cards. “You talkin’ or playin’ cards?”
“Just thought you might remember Skinner,” Trevallion said.
Rory rolled his cigar into the corner of his mouth and began to deal.
They played silently, yet Rory kept glancing at him, growing increasingly nervous. Trevallion met his eyes and smiled and Rory’s jaw set; he started to speak, then changed his mind and ordered a drink.
A man seated near him put down his cards and quietly withdrew from the game.
Rory was winning and the winning seemed to give him confidence. His staring at Trevallion grew belligerent, but Trevallion seemed unaware. Again it was Rory’s turn to deal, and as he picked up the cards, Trevallion commented, “That was an ugly night.”
Rory’s hands dropped to the table. His right hand slid back toward the edge of the table.
Trevallion gestured toward the deck. “Come on, man, deal!”
Rory took up the cards and dealt them, avoiding Trevallion’s eyes. They played the hand in silence and then another. Rory won several small pots and had another drink. He stared at Trevallion, frowning a little. Finally he said, “Do I know you?”
Trevallion shrugged. “You’ve never seen me before tonight.”
Rory dropped his hands to the discards and gave them a casual thrust toward Trevallion.
Trevallion said, “But I’ve seen you before. One night back in Missouri—what’s that in your left hand, Rory?”
Rory went for his gun, and Trevallion shot him.
His left hand opened slowly and dropped two slightly crimped cards on the table.
Rory’s eyes were on Trevallion’s with sudden attention. The hand that had reached the gun in his waistband fell away into his lap. There was a growing red stain on his shirt front. Men pulled slowly back from the table.
“You…you…” Rory’s lips struggled for the words that would not come.
“I was a boy then, Rory, but I was there. I saw it all.”
There was dead silence in the room. Rory started to rise then slumped back in his chair.
“You saw it,” Trevallion said, “he was cheating.”
“I seen it before!” The speaker was the man who quit the game. “I saw him steal some cards from the discards!”
“But,” a portly man with a heavy gold watch chain interrupted, “there was something else. What was all that talk?”
Trevallion’s eyes were cold. “A private matter,” he said.
He holstered his pistol, picked up the money from beside his cards, and walked from the room.
That had been three years ago.
He was jolted from his reverie by Ledbetter. “We’ll spend the night at Strawberry. I got my own corner there if somebody hasn’t beat me to it.”
It was almost dark when they came up to Strawberry, and the fresh snow had already been churned into slush. From the building there was a sound of loud voices and a rattle of dishes.
Ledbetter rode by and up into the trees on the slope. Not more than three minutes further on, he led them into an open place among the trees. At one side a row of trees had been pushed half over by an avalanche of snow in some bygone winter. A dozen or more of them leaned at a sharp angle, and behind them debris and fallen logs had reared a wall, offering shelter from the wind. Beneath it there was almost no snow.
“Don’t cotton to crowds,” Ledbetter said, “so I found me this place.”
“I’ll start a fire,” Trevallion offered.
Melissa followed him and stood by. “If I can help?” she asked.
He broke suckers from low on the trunks of the trees, gathered some dead, broken branches and chunks of bark. From a pocket he took a bit of tinder, part of an old bird’s nest.
“Do you always carry something like that?”
Without looking up, he nodded. “Can’t be sure of finding something dry.”
When Trevallion had a fire started he led his mule to water, stripped off the gear, and located a place under the trees for his bed. It was back away from the crowd. Nearer the fire he prepared some boughs and grass for Melissa’s bed.
“You mustn’t blame Alfie,” she said suddenly. “Mousel was armed. He might have killed him.”
“Alfie had a gun. He had a pocket-pistol and it was double-barreled. He had two shots to Mousel’s one; he ran like a rabbit.”
He glanced around at her. “Learn to judge men. His kind will always run.”
“Wouldn’t you ever?”
“Nobody knows what he will do. I never have, except from Indians, when outnumbered. But I might. It all depends on the situation. All Alfie needed was nerve. If he’d have pulled that gun, Mousel would have quit cold, although he might try to shoot him in the back, later.”
Ledbetter fried bacon. Several of the men went down to Strawberry to eat. Trevallion brought a loaf of bread from his pack. The three ate without much talk.
Suddenly Trevallion looked around. Tapley was back under the trees, nearly out of sight. “Pull up a chair,” Trevallion suggested. “There’s plenty.”
“I got nothing to offer.”
“You’re company. Come on.”
Slowly he walked down and squatted on his heels. He accepted some bread and bacon and ate, obviously hungry. “Thank you,” he said when finished. “I’m beholden.”
“You can put your feet under my table any time,” Ledbetter said.
“Goes for me,” Trevallion added.
The Arkansawyer squatted again and took up a burning twig to light his pipe. “Lost my outfit,” he puffed a moment. “Caught in a flash flood away down yonder in the desert. Had us two cows. Injuns got ’em.”
“ ‘Us’?”
“Had me a wife.” He dropped his eyes to the fire. “She was a good woman. Died out yonder…fever. My girl, she’s goin’ to school. She’s in Benecia.”
“Hard,” Ledbetter muttered. “A man comes on hard times.”
“I seen no others,” Tapley replied. “Worked hard all my years but can’t seem to come up winners. Grasshoppers ate me out of two crops back in the States, hail done for another. Injuns burned me out a couple of times. I worked Rich Bar, come up empty. Made the rush to the Frazier,” he turned to glance at Trevallion, “you know how that was.”
“A bust. Gold too fine and too little of it.”
“Aye.” He added sticks to the fire. “Got to make it this time. I got that girl,” he looked up proudly, “and she’s beautiful. I don’t know how come it, me bein’ a homely sort of man and her ma just passin’ pretty, but she’s beautiful. A girl like that, with nothing, she’ll have only trouble.”
The morning dawned clear and cold, but there was no wind. The pines edged themselves black against the sullen sky, and the mules were restless when they saddled up.
Nobody talked. Once in the saddle, Ledbetter started off at a good pace. Only a few were on the trail when they reached it, and Ledbetter forged right into the column. Some drew aside, others cursed him, but he ignored the curses, lifting a hand to those who stepped aside and broke into a trot.
There was an odd feeling to the wind. Melissa caught up with Trevallion as today she had fallen behind him. “What’s wrong?”
“Snow. There’s snow on that wind.”
“But it’s clear!”
“You’ll see. Jim wants to get us off the mountain before it strikes. Woodford’s is next, but it’s down off the hill.”
Clouds piled up over the peaks and ridges behind them. A small wind fiddled among the pines. The mules quickened their step. Ledbetter glanced back at the sky.
The trail dipped down into a thicker stand of pines, and the sky was no longer visible except directly overhead. Occasionally, through the trees ahead and much lower, they caught glimpses of a valley and some grassland.
Trevallion knew where he was and what was coming and did not think of it. He was thinking of himself now. He was changing. The sullen fury that had burned within him for so long was gone or seemed to be gone, dissipated by time and the killing of Rory and Skinner.
There was time now to think of the future, if he was to have any future. He remembered only too well the words of the man long ago, who had told him revenge could steal a man’s life until there was nothing left but emptiness.
They were nearing Genoa when Ledbetter fell back beside him. “I’m riding back with some ore, Val. Will you keep an eye on her?”
“As much as I can.”
“Just if she needs a hand. Hate to see a young girl up here alone.”
“You know how they are, Jim. They talk rough and some of them are rough, but nobody will see a decent woman bothered.”
“Maybe. This ain’t like it was in the States. Men coming in from everywhere. Ain’t got the same upbringing or ideas.”
“They’ll learn.”
For a time they rode in silence, then Trevallion said, “Jim, I know how hard they are to come by, but I’d like to buy this mule…and hers, too.”
“All right,” Ledbetter agreed. “I’ll sell you the black one, and you can use hers until I come over on my next trip. She can ride it to Virginia town.”
“Fair enough.”
They drew up at a hitching-rail, and both men dismounted. Trevallion looked up at the mountain. Maybe, his brain said, just maybe this is it.
He glanced at Melissa Turney’s blanket-roll. It was pitifully thin. “You’ll need a better groundsheet,” he said, “and more blankets. It’s cold up there.”
“It will be summer soon,” she protested.
“Aye, that it will, but there’ll be cold nights aplenty before then.”
“I can’t afford it.”
“No problem. I’ll stake you that far.” He hesitated then suggested, “If you’re that serious about the baking, we might go partners for a bit.”
Ledbetter agreed. “I’ve fifty dollars I’ll venture. If you can bake, you’ll have all the money you’ll need in no time at all.”
“We’d better get what she needs now,” Trevallion said. “No need making another trip back down the mountain.”
He held the door for her as she entered, Ledbetter following. Trevallion was the last one through the door, and the first person he saw was Ramos Kitt.
CHAPTER 8
For an instant Trevallion had an impulse to turn around and walk out, but if Kitt was in the area, they must one day meet. He was halfway across the room when Kitt turned and saw him.
Startled, Kitt froze in position, his right hand holding a pair of pants he was examining. Carefully, he put them down.
“How are you, Ramos? You’re looking well.”
Slowly, Ramos Kitt relaxed. “I’m doing all right. I wasn’t expecting you.”
Trevallion smiled. “So I noticed. I wasn’t expecting you, either.”
Ramos took the makings from his pocket and began to build a cigarette. As he touched the paper to his tongue, he looked over it at Trevallion. “I hear Skinner is dead.”
“Last time I saw him, he was.”
“He was a friend of mine.”
“What was between us was no business of yours. You met him at Sutter’s Mill, after Marshall’s find. What was between us goes back before that.”
“I met him in ’54. Sutter’s was finished by then.”
Trevallion stepped to the bar. “I’ll buy a drink, Ramos.” Ledbetter and Melissa were watching, puzzled. “There need be no trouble between you and me.”
“He was my friend.”
“Skinner was a friend to no man. A riding partner, maybe. An associate, maybe. But not a friend. Anyway, he’s gone. He had a fair shake and he lost.”
“He was good with a gun.”
“But not good enough. Will you have that drink?”
Ramos hesitated. He was a slim, wiry man who had easy, catlike movements. He wore sideburns and a mustache. “All right.”
They moved to the bar and were served, the man behind the bar large-eyed with awareness.
“Prospecting?” Kitt asked.
“In a way.”
“What was it between you an’ Obie?”
Trevallion did not want to talk about it. Neither did he want to kill this man. “He was one of them who killed my mother and father. That was ten years ago.”
“Do I know any of the others?”
“You might. Maybe you knew Rory?”
“I knew him. A no-good card—” he broke off suddenly. “Rory’s dead?”
“He is. He was killed when caught cheating.”
Ramos looked at him out of the corners of his eyes, then gulped half the whiskey. “There is gold here,” he said then, “but not much. I’ve been thinking of leaving.”
“Have you heard about the silver, then?”
“Silver?”
“The blue stuff. The stuff they’ve been mucking out of the sluices and cursing for a nuisance. There’s been an assay, and it runs strong with silver.”
“The hell you say!” He paused, then asked, “Do you think it’s worth staying for?”
“I do.” Trevallion finished his drink. “Ramos, I’ve some friends to help here, and a young lady who wishes to start a bakeshop. I’ll be going then. But, Ramos?”
“Yes?”
“There’s going to be money to be made here. A great lot of it, and there’s a lot of no-nonsense sort of men coming in who will be making it and not wanting trouble. You’re not a miner, but you’d make a guard for gold shipments, other things.”
Ramos smiled, showing even, white teeth. “A guard? Me?”
“I’d trust you, Ramos.” Trevallion looked into the suddenly unsmiling eyes. “I’d trust you with any amount, and know that if it didn’t get to Sacramento it would only be because you were dead or out of ammunition.”
“Maybe you trust too easily, my friend. There are those who say I ride the other trail.”
“There are many trails and if one doesn’t suit, we can try another.” He gestured a hand. “I smell money, Ramos. You can be rich here, honestly, and end your days on a ranch over in the valley with a lot of fat Kitts running about. You’ve been riding a bad horse, Ramos, and so have I, but it’s time to switch saddles.”
“Maybe.”
Trevallion turned away, then added, “Carry plenty of ammunition, Ramos.”
* * *
—
Trevallion rode with Melissa up through Gold Canyon. Their mules’ hoofs clattered on the rock under the thin s
oil. It was bleak and barren, marked with clumps of short, sad grass mingled with the sagebrush and cedar.
They drew up within sight of the settlement, if such it could be called. Scattered stone huts, some ramshackle shacks of dirty canvas and planks, further along a frame building or two, and a log house built of cedar cut on the mountainside.
A dog barked, and a woman in a faded blue dress stood in the door of the log cabin and shaded her eyes at them.
“Is…is this it?”
“It is.”
Wind stirred her pale blonde hair as she turned to look at him. “I expected more.”
“They are all the same. Boom camps start like this. If there’s rich ore, they grow.”
“Will there be stores? Places like that?”
“Saloons first, then boarding houses, and what will be called hotels. Many of those will be in tents. Usually two or three mines pan out and the rest come to nothing. The discoverers will sell out, take their money, spend it, and when broke they will go out looking for another strike.
“Those who don’t sell out will be tricked or forced out. Then they will drift on and be forgotten. Then will come the men who know how to develop and manage properties, the ones who know how to make their money work for them. I saw one of them on the trail, a man named George Hearst. He was at Sheep Camp and Grass Valley.”
“What will become of me?”
“If you stick to what you are planning, you will do well. Stay away from mines and do not invest in mining stocks. Just bake, sell, and save. And steer clear of Alfies.”
“He was all right. He just—”
“He ran like a rabbit. Ma’am, I will help you build your own place and get started, but let me warn you.
“You’re a good woman. You will work hard and you will do well, and you will find a good man if you will wait.
“Probably you’ll not wait. There will be another Alfie. He will be good-looking and empty, and he will spend your money and come back for more and more, and finally he will leave. Another will come along who might have different hair and eyes, but he will be Alfie all over again.”
“You don’t think much of me.”
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