Comstock Lode

by Louis L'Amour

  “I suspect that’s something we all should know,” he agreed. “I’m sure Alfie can—oh, pardon me! Sorry, Mr. Kelby, I was thinking of somebody else.”

  “Well,” Melissa said sharply, “you needn’t!”

  Ledbetter finished his coffee and got up. His face was expressionless. “See you tomorrow, Val.”

  Trevallion went to the door, glanced around, and went around the building to his mule. He mounted up and rode out. There was at least five hundred in dust in the cache up the canyon where he had first filed his claim.

  He took a trail east out of Gold Hill, rode about a half mile and turned north, then wound around through the prospect holes and shacks into the rough country again and reached Six Mile Canyon. Several times he checked his back trail, and he was not followed. At Six Mile he turned east and rode up the canyon at a rapid trot and did not slow his pace until he was nearing his claim.

  The late afternoon sun was dipping down beyond the far mountains and there were shadows in the canyons but no darkness as yet. He tied his mule with a slipknot as usual and went to the cedars where he usually made camp.

  He was jumpy and uneasy. Yet the camp showed no sign that anyone had been there since he had gone. He broke sticks as if for a fire, laid the sticks in order and then, rising, went to where his cache was. He was squatting to dig out his cache when he saw the round white rock from the stream placed atop the rock near his cache. Right below it, barely visible in the vague light except for the sharp whiteness of the scar, a deep scratch as if made by a glancing bullet.

  He threw himself to the right, heard the vicious whip of the bullet and the snapping sound as it clicked off the rock, and then he was firing from his drawn Colt. Firing at the flash of a rifle, and then he was up and running. There was another shot, a hasty shot fired by an angry man who had missed a perfect setup, and then he was among the rocks.

  For a few minutes he waited but heard no sound at all, and he expected none.

  This was a careful man, a most careful man. He had located Trevallion’s cache, had set the rock up as an easily seen target, and had checked the distance and range with at least one shot. And then he had waited.

  That man with the fringed leggings, the one who left the bakery. He would have been the one who went to the hunter to report what he had heard. Trevallion was buying mules, he would need money, he would go to his cache.

  For an hour, Trevallion waited. By then it was totally dark, and he went down to his cache and dug into the sand, into the hollow under the rock.

  His gold was gone.

  Five hundred dollars—much hard work, and all for nothing.

  Moreover, there was simply no way in which he could get to Pipe Spring and back in time for the meeting tomorrow. He rode up the canyon and away from town then circled back to Spafford’s.

  The station was open and Spafford was sweeping out when he rode up. Hall glanced at him and then at his mule. “Put some grain in the bin after you rub him down,” he said, “you’ve had a hard ride.”

  “Spaff,” Trevallion said, “I need five hundred dollars.”

  Hall stopped sweeping. “If you need it, you need it,” he said. “I always liked your father. He was a good man.”

  “I’m buying a piece of Ledbetter’s business,” Trevallion explained. “He needs it by noon today, and I can’t make it in time. With what I’ve given him he can swing the deal and I’ll pay him, and you, the next time he comes over the trail.”

  “All right.” Hall went back inside and Trevallion led the mule around to the stable, where he rubbed him down and fed him grain. At the stable door he paused and glanced up and down the road, then went into the store by the back door.

  Hall had the money ready. “You’re making a good buy,” he commented. “Ledbetter’s coining money.”

  “Aye.” Trevallion took the money and pocketed it. “If anybody asks for me, you haven’t seen me.”

  “Trouble?”

  “That old trouble.”

  “You saw it, didn’t you? When they killed your ma?”

  “I did.”

  “Somebody’s scared, Trevallion, and that’s odd. A bunch of renegades like that. They’d probably killed a lot of people, one time or another.”

  He struck a match and lit his pipe. “Looks to me like somebody has something to lose. Ever think of that?”

  “I’ve thought of it. I’ve never talked of this, Spaff, but I’ve always believed one man engineered that affair. That man knew my father and his friend Redaway had money. He wanted the money. He had probably spied on them and saw the two men go into town and knew the women were there alone.

  “Somehow that bunch got some whiskey—they didn’t have any money, but the whiskey came from somewhere. I’ve done a lot of nosing around these past years and have picked up with a few men who knew Skinner.”

  “He was one of them?”

  “Aye. A voice called out that somebody was coming and they all took out. Killing a woman was a hanging offense, and they wouldn’t have had a chance. So they ran. Then one man came out of the woods, got the money, killed Redaway and I think my mother, and then left.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “I’m not sure. I think so. I didn’t really see the face of the man, but there was one around town whom I think I’d know.”

  “Ten years is a while.”

  Trevallion nodded. “That thing last night was set up for killing. When I squatted down to dig out a little cache I had, I saw that small rock placed atop the one that marked the cache. That small rock was no larger than my fist, nice and round and very white.

  “I saw that scratch on the rock and instantly knew somebody had shot at it to test the range. So I hit the dirt rolling just as he shot.”

  “Close.”

  “Too damned close.”

  “He’d been watching you then, saw you cache the stuff.”

  Neither man talked for awhile and Trevallion watched the road. Finally he said, “Spaff, it’s going to be a big camp. They’ve cut trenches exposing the ore body for a couple of hundred feet through the Ophir and the Mexican. Some of that ore is rich enough to be taken out and sorted by hand. A lot of men are going to get rich here.”

  “It’s hell here in the winter,” Hall said. “You staying or riding out?”

  “Staying, I think. I’ve seen a lot of hard winters.”

  Hall chuckled. “Wait until you see one of those Washoe zephyrs!”

  “Nobody on the road yet. Come and have breakfast with me.”

  An hour later Trevallion, his Winchester in his hands, started up the Gold Canyon trail.

  CHAPTER 13

  Trevallion wanted trouble with no man, but when he rode back up the canyon to Gold Hill it was with mounting irritation. He wished for nothing so much as to settle down to mining, whether on his own or for someone else, and he wanted no trouble. At the same time he was perfectly aware that having missed once was no reason the unknown marksman would quit and go elsewhere. He was not only here but he had taken five hundred hard-earned dollars.

  Ledbetter was at the bakery to meet him, and he paid over the borrowed five hundred, adding that on the next trip he would have the rest. He said nothing to Ledbetter about the shot fired at him. He did say his cache had been robbed.

  “There’s more of that. There was a man murdered on the trail only last week, struck over the head from behind and then robbed, probably by a man who was traveling with him.”

  “There’ll be vigilantes if they keep that up,” another man suggested.

  “Any idea who got your gold?” Ledbetter asked.

  “An idea. But I couldn’t prove a thing, and I don’t actually know.”

  Ledbetter put the money away and said, “Do you know Sam Brown?”

  “No.”

  “Be careful of him.
He’s a big, uncombed man, a brute, and utterly vicious. He’s killed several men and doesn’t care how he does it. I heard that he has beaten one man to death with a club, and I know he has stabbed several. You’re in less danger than most, but you can’t be sure, not even you.”

  “Why not ‘even’ me?”

  “You’ve a reputation, Val, whether you know it or not. You’ve been in a few Indian fights, you brought back that gold when you were given up for dead, and you killed Rory. Somebody asked Farmer Peel who was the most dangerous man around, and he did not even hesitate. He named you.”

  “That’s nonsense. I mind my own affairs, that’s all. And I fight my own battles.”

  The street was crowded, and a dozen new buildings were going up. The double row of structures facing each other across the street was now a quarter of a mile long and growing with each day. The gambling houses were open all night long.

  There was talk of trouble with the Indians.

  “There needn’t be trouble,” Trevallion said. “Talk to old Chief Winnemucca. He’s a reasonable man.”

  George Hearst came into town and made an offer for McLaughlin’s one-sixth, taking an option on it when McLaughlin agreed. He rode out of town for Nevada City to borrow the money.

  McLaughlin chuckled. “Those damn’ Californians don’t know nothin’! I sold Hearst a hole in the ground for three thousand dollars!”

  “What are you going to say when it turns out to be a rich one?”

  McLaughlin shrugged and filled his glass. “I’ll say fine! Good for him! Look, I’ve taken a couple of thousand out of that hole and worked awful hard to do it. From here on the work will get harder, not easier. If anybody’s going to make money there, he’d better have money to spend, that’s all I’ve got to say!”

  “Wait until spring,” Kelby suggested. “When the snow goes off the ground in the spring the pigeons will come aflying! They’ll come in here with all that fresh California money, just what we want!”

  The bakery was becoming more and more of a meeting place, and he moved back to Melissa’s table. She was rarely there, for she now had three bakers working shifts around the clock.

  Trevallion, his Winchester under his arm, walked the street from end to end, looking for Waggoner.

  There was no sign of him.

  Instead, he met Crockett. “When are you going to work for me, Trevallion?”

  “When you offer me a share of the mine instead of wages.”

  Crockett’s smile vanished. “A share? You’ve got to be crazy!”

  “Why? You think the ore is there but you don’t know how to get it out. I do. So why shouldn’t I have a share?”

  He walked away up the street, but when Crockett called after him, he did not stop.

  At the next saloon he saw Ol’ Virginny, and lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Buy me a drink?” Virginny suggested. “I spent my last or was rolled for it.”

  Trevallion stepped to the bar. “Two whiskeys.” As the glasses were filled, Trevallion turned to face Virginny. “Tell me something, have you worked in the Solomon?”

  “Don’t need to.” Virginny picked up his glass and his hand trembled. “They’ve got nothing in sight. An’ maybe,” he paused and looked at Trevallion out of wise old eyes, “they aren’t lookin’ too hard!”

  He downed his liquor. “The way I see, that ground there should be ore, rich ore. Well, there isn’t. They’re getting out enough rock to mill, but when all’s said an’ done, it’s mighty poor stuff.”

  “Crockett believes in it.”

  “He does that. What he needs,” Virginny glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes, “is a good mining man.”

  “Crockett run the mine himself?”

  “Well, sort of. He’s too good-natured to hold the men to their jobs, so he leaves that to Al Hesketh, who’s a hard man.”

  “This Hesketh? Is he a mining man?”

  Ol’ Virginny shrugged. “Some might call him that, but I would not. But he’s canny, canny.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Ol’ Virginny downed another drink. “Like I said, maybe they ain’t lookin’ too hard. If a strike comes at the right time, when the price of the stock is down, a man who knows that strike is coming can do himself proud, mighty proud.”

  “Has Hesketh been buying stock?”

  “All I said was, he’s canny. What he does I don’t know, but there’s no Solomon stock been bought for some time. Folks figure she’s played out an’ the stock’s way down.”

  “But they are shipping ore?”

  “Some, low-grade stuff. Crockett’s workin’ eight, maybe ten men. Varies some with the quittin’ that goes on. Miners in a boom camp are a restless lot.

  “Anyway, if Crockett is payin’ those miners, payin’ Hesketh and buyin’ powder an’ such, he’s not makin’ ends meet. Or that would be my guess.”

  Trevallion bought another drink for Ol’ Virginny. They talked mines and mining, then Ol’ Virginny began to ramble on about the Comstock. “I ain’t no gee—no geologist,” he said, “but this here’s a mighty broken, twisted country. That lode, she doesn’t always lie where you figger, an’ sometimes you strike a rich pocket and then she plays out, with a big ‘horse’ or block of no-good ground thrust up betwixt that ore body and one next to it. Folks strike that horse of no-pay ground and they think she’s played out, sometimes it is.

  “Often as not there’s more lies beyond, which they never find. That Solomon now—they started runnin’ a drift, tunnel, whatever you want to call it, and all of a sudden they quit. Decided they were wasting money, an’ maybe they were. Anyway, they quit and took off on another tangent.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think they should’ve kept on the way they were goin’, but who am I to say? They were on the ground, takin’ samples all along. They know what they were wantin’ to do.”

  Taking the bottle, they went to one of the few tables and seated themselves. Ol’ Virginny was in a mellow but talkative mood. “I worked in Grass Valley when you was there,” he said, “and folks from Rich Bar have spoke of you. They tell me you’re a top man with a single-jack. Like to work with you sometime.”

  He gestured at the busy mountainside. “You watch. Come winter they’ll disappear. Most of ’em. They’ll just take out for Californy an’ try to beat the winter over the mountains. You have any cash you hang to it, sure as shootin’ come the first cold spell you can buy cheap. I seen it before.

  “You an’ me, Trev, we got to take us a walk. Show you a thing or two about this here layout.” He gestured widely at the hillside. “Them Grosch boys, they knowed! But ol’ Pancake, he knows nothing! Nothing atall!

  “You mind what I say. Come spring the moneyboys from Frisco will be comin’ in, buyin’ everything in sight. That Ralston, he already knows a good bit, and he’s a mighty shrewd man. You take my word for it and buy with ever’ dime you can get before winter shuts down.”

  “What about you?”

  Virginny shot him a shrewd look from under his brows. “Never you mind about me. I done taken steps, but it’ll do me no good. Drink it up, that’s what I’ll do. Young man like you, you should have a wife, youngsters. You should build you a home.”

  When night came he rode up the canyon, as if returning to his original claim near the Sugarloaf, and circling back, he camped in some low willows near the Carson River. At an hour before daybreak and without breakfast, he mounted and headed back for his claim near Pipe Spring.

  For a week he worked hard and, making a few small discoveries, he located a claim about a mile northwest of Pipe Spring. He made the discoveries while scouting around to see if there had been any visitors. He found no tracks but those of animals, and even they were few. Saturday morning when he started to make coffee he found a thin coating of ice in the bucket
.

  The week just ending had been his best by far, with several neat little pockets of alluvial gold found in natural riffles and a clean-up on the bedrock of a trench he had dug along an old streambed.

  The gold found here was of better quality than that found in Gold Canyon and would run about sixteen dollars to the ounce. Yet he was not deceived. Well as he had done, he knew he had found only pockets, and the chances of any major discovery were nil.

  Yet he persisted through another week, working from daylight to dark. By the end of the second week since his return, the water had almost ceased to run, and there was no chance of working further. At that, only the fact that the mountains lifted abruptly around had given him as much water as he had, and most of the intermittent streams had long ceased to flow.

  Saddling the black mule and taking what gold he had, he avoided the route by which he had come into the area and rode east to Lebo Spring, then cut across to the head of Eldorado Canyon.

  About an hour after starting, he paused to water the mule at some springs beneath a steep bluff, then after a brief rest started on down the canyon. There was a settlement of miners along there somewhere, but he had never visited the place. When he found it, there were but three shacks and a somewhat larger structure that doubled as a store and saloon.

  Leaving the mule at the hitching rail he went into the saloon.

  A bald-headed man with a red fringe of hair glanced around at him. “Howdy! We got whiskey and we got some cold beer.”

  “I’ll have the beer. How do you keep it cold?”

  The man chuckled. “Got me a lil ol’ cave back yonder, and the air that comes out o’ there is cold, and I mean really cold! I set my beer in the opening, and you couldn’t want it better.”

  “Are you Trevallion?”

  He looked around at the speaker. He was a slim, handsome young man with a wave in his hair and a quick, friendly smile. “I’m Eldorado Johnny,” the speaker said.

  “Heard of you. Yes, I’m Trevallion.”

  “Hear you’re mighty good with a gun.”