Comstock Lode

by Louis L'Amour

  “She has nothing I want,” Hesketh lied. “I scarcely know the woman. I just don’t want trouble.”

  “Mr. Hesketh, I don’t know you, either, but I know you left a trail somewhere an’ I’m aguessin’ there’s blood on it. So we better understand each other. Mr. Hesketh, that little lady seen the kind of man I was, but she also seen I was in need. She come right out with it, no ifs, ands, or buts, an’ I like that. I really do. Now you understand this. I want nothing to happen to her. No shots in the night, no accidents, nothing like that. If I was you, Mr. Hesketh, I’d hope that little lady has a charmed life, because if she so much as stubs a toe an’ hurts herself, I’m going to think it was your fault.”

  He turned abruptly and walked away. Hesketh stared after him, then he swore viciously, turned and walked to the stage, and getting in, settled himself in his seat.

  The sandy-haired young man suddenly spoke into the darkness. “Lake up ahead. It’s big and it’s cold, and it’s deep. Bigler’s Lake some call it. Others call it Tahoe. Indians used to say there was a huge bird of some kind lived on the bottom. They called it the Ong and said it lived on human flesh. Finally it snatched some brave’s sweetheart and he killed it after an awful fight.”

  Nobody said anything, and he lapsed into silence. And then for a long time there were only the creaking of the leather braces, the rattle of chains, and the sound of the running horses.

  Jacob Teale, riding atop the stage, saw the movement. They had slowed for a last steep climb up a slight rise among the cedars. Van Sickles was not far ahead and they would soon leave the forest behind, and the trees. He had roused himself, expecting if a move was made it must be now.

  He leaned forward and touched Dave on the shoulder. “No matter what, do not stop! Keep going!”

  He was carrying a Merrill breech-loading Navy, a percussion rifle firing a .54-calibre cartridge. A new weapon at the time, Teale had bought it from a thief who had stolen it from a ship in the harbor. Settling down among the mail sacks and duffle bags atop the stage, he held his rifle ready. Suddenly a rider lunged from the brush and pulled up in the middle of the road. He shouted something and lifted a hand and Teale fired.

  The horse leaped, the rider toppled from the saddle, and Teale drew his pistol, firing three quick shots into the brush where the rider had waited. And then they were by and racing down the trail. Hastily, Teale reloaded the rifle and then began loading the emptied chambers in the pistol.

  Behind him Waggoner swore bitterly as Teem climbed from the dust, staggering and almost falling again. “Damn you!” Waggoner reined his horse around. “I told you to stop him, not to jump into the road!”

  “They were ready for us,” Teem said. “He blew the pommel right off my saddle! That damn’ horse jumped an’ I’d nothin’ to hold to!”

  He brushed himself off. “Hold on a minute. I’ll catch my horse.”

  “You won’t need him.”

  Teem pulled up short, half turning. “What? What did you say?”

  He saw the starlight on the gun barrel, and Teem grabbed for his own gun. Too late he remembered it lay in the dust, where it had fallen when he was thrown. He dove into the dust, grabbing wildly for it. Waggoner turned his horse broadside to the fallen man and fired two shots into his back as he started to rise.

  Turning his horse, Waggoner took a dim, little used trail that would take him across a shoulder of Monument Peak. With luck and some shortcuts he might even beat the stage back to Virginia City.

  The holdup had failed, but he had “paid” Teem as he was supposed to do. If his unknown employer didn’t like that, he could get himself another man. Anyway, how did it happen there was a rifleman atop that stage? Had it been a trap?

  No reason for a trap. He was no danger to his employer. He did not know who the man was and cared less. He did care for the money, which made his life easier than any he had ever known.

  Blew the pommel off? That was shootin’! The man atop the stage was trying for a gut shot, and from the top of a bounding stage at a moving horseman, that was good shooting.

  * * *

  —

  Waggoner had stabled his horse and was in a saloon having a drink when the stage came in after its stops at Van Sickles, Genoa, and Carson City. Once he had established his presence, he left the saloon and walked to his shack.

  He stepped in, closed the door behind him, and stood very still; something was wrong.

  Listening, he could detect no sound. After a moment he struck a match, lighting the coal-oil lamp. Nothing seemed to have been changed. He glanced into every corner, nothing.

  Yet he knew what it was. The airless little cabin became very close and the air stuffy when long closed, and the air was fresh. Someone had been in the cabin, and that someone was not long gone. There was no other indication, yet he knew.

  Who?

  He must be careful. There might be a trap, something dangerous to him.

  Waggoner put water on the stove for coffee and then looked around again, finding nothing out of place or disturbed.

  He made his coffee and sat down at the oilcloth-covered table to think. He lit a cigar and gazed out the small window that afforded a glimpse of the town.

  He had failed to rob the coach and get those shares, but how could he have succeeded? And who tipped them off? The first shot had been fired from the coach before Teem even lifted his voice. In other words, they were ready and waiting.

  His unknown employer? It made no sense. There was no way he could be a threat to him, and he was needed.

  Teem? Teem knew nothing until he told him and not much then, nor had Teem been out of his sight before the holdup.

  He put down his cup suddenly and sharply. The stage was coming in. He would go down and listen to what was said. Moreover, he wanted to find out who had shot at him.

  Closing the door behind him, he went down the slope, his boots crunching on the gravel. The stage was drawn up at the edge of the walk, and people were getting down.

  The first person he saw was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He looked, then looked again. Another girl stood beside her, and two men.

  Baggage was being unloaded. He strolled across the street and stood with the others who were watching, staring at the newcomers. His eyes went from one to the other, looking for a man with a rifle; he saw none.

  Jacob Teale had drawn back through the crowd and was leaning against the wall, a seemingly uninterested bystander, lacking any association with the stage. Yet he saw Waggoner, caught a glimpse of him walking down the street with every indication of direction and purpose, now standing idly by, searching the crowd with his eyes, watching everybody who got off the stage.

  Teale studied Waggoner with care. Now maybe, just maybe. The man had come down the street in a hurry as if he was to meet somebody, but now he was standing back and just watching. For what?

  Manfred looked around. The streets were crowded, buildings were going up, there was the pound of stamp-mills and compressors. Everything spoke of money to be made.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” Grita exclaimed. “A real mining town!”

  “There’s money here,” Manfred replied, “the place reeks of it. Give them entertainment and we can run forever.”

  She turned and for a moment her eyes touched those of Waggoner. She saw him clearly, a rough-looking, broad-shouldered man with strong jaw and cheekbones, a rock-hard face with big strong teeth.

  She shuddered. “Richard, take me inside.”

  There was something in her voice that turned him sharply toward her. She was ashen, obviously frightened. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

  “No, just— It was that man,” she said, and turned to indicate him. Waggoner was gone.

  Jacob Teale was suddenly beside them. “Ma’am, if you need me, I’ll be close by.”

  “Mr. Teale? Did
you see that man? The large man who—”

  “I seen him. You know him?”

  “I…I’ve seen him. I’m sure of it!”

  * * *

  —

  Hesketh had gone inside immediately. His apartment was here, and he went to it to change clothes. He was angry and a little frightened. He needed time to think, to plan, to do.

  Everything, all he had planned for these past dozen years, was on the line. If Will Crockett learned Grita Redaway was in town and realized she had the shares, he would be relegated to second place, something he could not abide. Crockett would have him out, outside where he could do nothing.

  Find Crockett somehow, and kill him. In any tight situation it was his immediate reaction, to kill whatever stood in the way, to strike out.

  Nor could he take chances on Grita Redaway. She was lucky; something in him fought down the idea that she might be shrewd or clever. He would concede that to no woman. But she was lucky, and men liked to do things for her, all but him.

  He would have to move fast. His chance was here. He was an important man on the Comstock. He knew nobody liked him, but that was of no importance because they feared him, and before he was through with the Comstock they would fear him even more.

  If—a big if—if he could somehow get those shares. He needed control. Then he would take care of Trevallion.

  Trevallion had enemies. If Waggoner couldn’t bring it off, he’d find someone who could.

  He dressed with meticulous care. He would dine in the main dining room tonight, alone. He would be served in princely grandeur, and she would see who he was.

  He had a feeling she despised him. Well, he would show her!

  He thought ahead to his next move. He had supposedly worthless claims that bordered on two of the best claims in the district. The owners were small fry. Soon, by one means or another, he would have those claims. He would avoid Hearst and the other big ones, for the time being.

  For a moment he considered Crockett. The man was too trusting, but he was no fool. He was shrewd, intelligent, and not without guile.

  Hesketh crossed to his desk and, getting out his key, inserted it in the lock. He turned the key, then turned it back. The desk had been unlocked!

  He always locked it, and he distinctly recalled locking it before he left, yet it was now unlocked.

  Somebody had been here, in this room. Somebody had opened his desk.

  CHAPTER 34

  Albert Hesketh had been born with another name in a tall two-and-a-half-story white house that stood in an empty field on the edge of town. His father was a slender, slightly bald man who clerked in a grocery store. The town itself was small, less than two thousand people.

  Years later, when another name became necessary, Albert took that of one of the town’s prominent families. In the town of his birth the Hesketh name had immediate identification. The Heskeths not only owned the most imposing house in town but were somehow connected with the bank as well as other enterprises. The Heskeths had no children.

  Albert was a humorless child who did reasonably well in school, who made no friends and wanted none. Once, when he was seven, he was suddenly pushed over another boy’s back. The boy had, unknown to Albert, dropped to hands and knees behind him and the other boy pushed him over his back. It was all in fun, but Albert’s fall was shocking—to him. He leaped from the ground, and grabbing up a piece of broken board, he took a swing at the offending boy. The edge of the board caught the boy above the ear, knocked him down and out and cut his scalp. The cut necessitated several stitches, but when asked, the boy said he had fallen, and stuck to his story. Nobody ever pushed Albert again. Neither was he asked to play, to go hunting, or any of the things boys did.

  His father rarely talked at the table, but when he did it was of business transactions of which he had heard and of which he always spoke enviously but seemingly without any desire to emulate them.

  “Why don’t you do that?” he asked his father.

  “I haven’t the capital,” his father had replied. “It takes money to make money.”

  Yet later he heard men talking downtown, and one was telling how old Colonel Hesketh had made his money. “Trapped muskrats along the river,” the man said, “sold his fur and bought a wagon-load of apples. He drove a rig into the country and traded those apples. Then he bought pigs and drove them to market.

  “On one of his trips he saw this place, so he bought land here, built a store, and loaned money. Then he opened a bank.”

  Albert despised his father. His mother was a pale, sickly woman who was always “ailing.” He was an only child.

  At fourteen he began helping in the store. At fifteen he saw an old lady drop some money as she turned away from the counter. He picked it up and kept it. Here and there he managed to put his hands on little bits of money which he hoarded.

  He hated the house he lived in and the town, and had but one desire, to be rich. Just what he would do when he was rich he had not considered. When he was sixteen, he left a back window at the store unlatched, entered in the dark, and took the money from the coffee sack in which it was hidden. He left some cans on the floor and carried away a few other things which he hid, not wanting them but to give the appearance of robbery.

  When he left he broke the window near the latch to leave the appearance of forced entry.

  A few days later he began inquiring for another job, and even went to a neighboring town to apply. All this was to give the appearance of a desire to move on, to better himself, so when he left no one would be surprised.

  When he left he said no good-byes. He simply packed and caught a ride on a wagon as far as Pittsburgh, and then on a river boat. His first job was in Lexington, and he stayed, working as a bookkeeper and counterman in a supply store, for two years. By careful handling of purchases and accounts, he enriched himself by several hundred dollars before taking a steamboat to St. Louis.

  He carried his money in a leather wallet inside his shirt. Emerging from the dining room, he started to his cabin when a roistering, loud-talking group descended upon him. “Come on! Have a l’il drink wi’ us!” A man grabbed him in a rough but seemingly friendly fashion. “Come on! Join us!”

  “No, thanks. I—”

  It was with difficulty that he succeeded in pulling himself free of them. He got into his cabin and shut the door, then removed his coat. Suddenly his hands went to his waistband, feeling wildly about. The wallet was gone! All the money he had stolen and that which he had worked for was gone.

  Rushing back to the deck, he looked wildly around. The wallet was there…empty!

  He started for the saloon where he could hear shouts and boisterous laughter, then he stopped. Whom could he accuse? There had been seven or eight of them, perhaps more, and he had seen none of their faces because of the darkness.

  In his pants pocket he had three dollars, in his cabin a carpetbag with a few items of clothing, and that was all. He dropped to his bunk and sat there, stunned.

  Robbed! All his plans gone for nothing! All his carefully hoarded money gone!

  He was swept by a blind fury. He started to his feet ready to rush out.

  He stopped. Caution was what he needed. It was dark, the boat was quiet. Soon some of the men would be leaving their drinking, and if he could find one alone….

  It was cool and dark when he stepped outside. The deck was empty. He went to the window and peered in at the crowd around the bar. That bulky man in the broadcloth coat had been one of them, he was sure.

  He would wait.

  It was almost an hour before the man in the broadcloth coat staggered from the saloon and started toward his sleeping quarters. From a neat pile of wood for the saloon stove, Albert chose a stick, then quickly he went down the passage after him. Hearing footsteps, the man had started to turn when Albert struck him.

  The man
fell to his knees and Albert struck him again. A quick glance again to right and left, and he went through the man’s pockets.

  A five-dollar gold piece, no more.

  Dragging the man to the side of the boat, Albert dumped him over. As the man hit the cold water there was a faint cry. If he was not conscious enough and a good swimmer, the stern wheel would take care of him.

  There was no further chance. The others emerged in groups and went down the deck, lurching from side to side, arguing and protesting over something.

  At last he went to bed, sleepless because of the sullen rage that gnawed at him.

  He waited on the deck with the others, baggage in hand, while the steamboat pulled in to the dock at St. Louis. The talk around him was all of California, of the fortunes to be made in mining.

  A man standing near him looked around suddenly. “Say! I don’t see Sam. Suppose he overslept?”

  Another man turned and started back toward the cabins. “I’ll look. His wife will be waiting for him on the dock, with the kids.”

  Moments later, he came running back. “He’s not there and his bunk’s not been slept in!”

  “What?” A ship’s officer was nearby and the man went to him. Listening, Albert heard only a few words. “He wasn’t drunk. Drinking, yes, but not drunk. Made this trip all the time. Moving to St. Louis now.”

  A low mumble from the officer, then the man replied. “Quite a lot, actually. Carried it in a moneybelt around his waist. Must’ve been a couple of thousand dollars.”

  Albert swore, softly, bitterly. All that money? And he had missed it. Gone now, gone for good.

  All landing was stopped. One by one the passengers were questioned. Albert answered simply and directly. One of the bystanders said, “He left early, turned in. I saw him leave, so he wasn’t even around when it happened.”