Comstock Lode

by Louis L'Amour

  “I was tired,” Albert said.

  One of the men turned his head and glanced at him, his brow puckered a little, but he said nothing.

  “Fell overboard,” the officer finally decided. “Happens all the time. A man’s been having a few and he’s walking down the deck, boat gives a little lurch and he falls. Too bad.”

  In St. Louis he found a job clerking in a store, and within a week he understood how things worked and was stealing, very little at first, then as his confidence increased, he stepped up what he was taking. Suddenly and without warning he was discharged. The owner simply said, “Take your money and get out. Don’t come back, even as a customer. Just keep going.”

  He asked no questions, made no protests. He was getting off easy and knew it, yet it worried him in that he had no idea of how he had erred.

  He found another job the following day and was careful to do everything correctly. He worked hard, became a skilled buyer of furs and hides, and learned all aspects of the business. Not knowing how much communication there was among various businessmen, he was careful to arouse no suspicion. He was a meticulous worker, keeping neat, exact books, and he made several suggestions that increased the business and cut the costs.

  The great days of the fur trade were long past, but the trade in hides was just coming into its own. On Albert’s advice the firm branched out into the sale of harnesses, saddles, and farm equipment of various kinds. He received a modest raise in salary, and he accepted it with thanks, mentally sneering at the amount. Meanwhile he read all he could find about mining and about California.

  He became aware that the owner rarely made more than a cursory check of the inventory which fluctuated rapidly, so he began setting aside bundles of prime furs, buying at lower and lower prices from trappers who were in debt to the firm, and entering their purchase at the usual cost. By manipulating shipments he soon built a secret cache of bales of valuable furs, which did not exist on the books but which remained in the cellar warehouse. Nothing was missing from the premises, but he had secreted a large amount of valuable merchandise to be shipped at his discretion. If found, he would merely claim he knew nothing about them, and it had been some kind of oversight.

  Men were growing rich in the mines, and Albert wanted to be among them, but he would need capital to invest. To work in the mines, to actually work with shovel and pan was no part of his plan of action.

  As another winter drew to a close, he made his decision. He would go west in the spring. He would have his own wagon, his own supplies. Not only what he would need, but enough to sell when he arrived. The problem now was to get those bales of furs out of the cellar and to dispose of them.

  Months before he had chosen his buyer, a greedy man not disposed to ask questions. Delivery of the furs was promised and arranged for, and Albert gave his notice.

  He had talked of going to California, and many were going, so his decision occasioned no surprise.

  Even at the low state of the market, the furs he had secretly stored would come to eight or nine thousand dollars.

  Over a drink in a cheap saloon he asked the buyer, “Franz? Can you take delivery of those furs tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Franz looked into his glass. “Why not?”

  “I’ll get a dray to haul them around,” Albert suggested.

  Franz waved a dismissing gesture. “I’ve my own man. I’ll send him around whenever you like.”

  “You will have the money? I shall want cash.”

  “Of course.”

  Albert Hesketh was pleased. He would go to California in style. There would be no charges against him, all would be smooth, neat, and well handled.

  At eight o’clock the streets near the warehouse were dark and silent. At ten the dray pulled up, and helped by the drayman, the bales of furs were loaded on the dray. As the dray pulled off, Albert started on his way to the saloon.

  He went in, ordered a drink, and sat down to wait, and wait.

  After fifteen minutes he began to fidget, after thirty he was up, peering out the window.

  He waited for another hour, then two hours. Franz never appeared. Furious, Albert Hesketh went around to the hotel where Franz lived. He was sitting in the bar, holding a stein of beer.

  “Sit down! Sit down!” Franz waved a hand toward a chair. “Where are your furs? We waited, and waited, but they never showed up.”

  “Don’t tell me that!” Albert was ugly. “Your man took them. He had them all on his dray.”

  “On my dray? My driver? Well, I’ll be damned! Maybe that’s why he never showed up!” Franz sipped his beer complacently. “Just like I was saying to your boss the other day. You just don’t know who to trust.

  “I was asking him,” he added, “if he had any prime fur for sale. He said he hadn’t any right now, and he was sorry because he could use the sale.”

  Franz sipped his beer, wiped his mustache with the back of his hand, and then said, “I think you’ve been tryin’ to trick me. You never had no fur. I’ve got your boss’s word for it.” His blue eyes were bland and smiling. “Well, better luck next time.”

  “Damn you! I’ll—”

  Franz waved a hand toward four men standing at the bar watching them. “If I were you I would just take a walk, a good long walk. If those boys got the idea you were thinking of getting rough…not that I couldn’t handle you.”

  For a moment he sat there, trembling with suppressed fury. He wanted to get up, he wanted to tear the man to bits, he wanted to smash and smash and smash.

  But Franz was larger, stronger, and the four men at the bar left him no choice.

  He stood up, taking a long slow look at Franz. “All right,” he said quietly. “All right.”

  He walked out and Franz looked after him, suddenly worried. One of the men came over. “Everything all right?”

  “All right. Only I’d rather he had threatened me. Struck at me, something.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Over his wine in the hotel dining room in Virginia City, Albert Hesketh’s eyes were hard with satisfaction, remembering that night. By dawn he had been miles on his way to Westport, behind him the sky was ablaze with fire.

  That was the night Franz Halbert’s warehouse burned with over a hundred thousand in furs and hides. Surprisingly, a steamboat and barge belonging to Halbert also caught fire, although they were moored a half-mile from the warehouse.

  A St. Louis paper, read in Westport, informed him that Franz Halbert was wiped out by his losses. That the fire had spread and destroyed other warehouses was, to Albert Hesketh, inconsequential.

  Yet he had been uncertain of what to do or how to move with the little money he had with him—until he saw the man with the gold.

  Ancient gold coins, one at least a Spanish coin; where that was, there must be more. The man had undoubtedly come upon treasure.

  That had proved a disappointment, for the man had no treasure, only a small handful of gold coins and objects along with a couple of small gems. Yet it had proved enough to outfit Hesketh for California and to establish him once there. Moreover, there had been something left which, hoarded, had given him his start toward controlling the Comstock.

  Now he must think. He must plan. The Solomon was now controlled by him and he must keep that control, no matter what it cost. Only the shares of stock he believed to be in the hands of Grita Redaway were needed. True, he had not seen them. He merely surmised their presence in her hands, for it was she who should have inherited them.

  Trevallion’s filing on the adjoining claim was infuriating but no more than that. Trevallion was merely greedy for himself or had some childish notion of saving something for Crockett; in either case he could be handled or gotten rid of.

  Suddenly uneasy, he shifted in his chair and refilled his wine glass. The trouble was not what Trevallion had done, but that he had done it.
Was there some unrealized purpose behind it?

  No matter. He would destroy them. Judge Terry might be the means. Terry was a shrewd, intelligent man somewhat blinded by his passions and his purposes. Terry wanted the gold and silver of the Comstock for the Confederacy. Even now he was plotting to seize it all.

  If he tried there would be trouble, and knowing the men of the Comstock for what they were, probably shooting trouble. In the shooting Trevallion could be killed and his property seized and eventually new claims staked. So the thing to do was to help Terry. Quietly, secretly, with men and with guns.

  A good meal and two glasses of wine and he felt better. True, he had failed to get the shares of stock, but they were probably here, and for the time being, Will Crockett was not. And that meant he had time, not much time, but some.

  He was rising to leave when Grita Redaway came in, flanked by Dane Clyde and Richard Manfred. All heads turned as she was escorted to her table by the waiter. Her eyes caught his and he bowed slightly, then left the room. Grita Redaway had arrived on the Comstock and there was no question about it, she was radiantly beautiful.

  Hesketh paused at the entrance, wondering why his heart was beating so rapidly.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER 36

  Sun Mountain had caught the first light of dawn when Trevallion came down the slope to the bakery. Ledbetter and Tapley were already seated with their coffee, awaiting breakfast. Melissa was nowhere around at this hour.

  “Hear that Alf something-or-other is sparkin’ her,” Tapley commented. “She’s doing well and honey draws flies.”

  “Ask Ledbetter about him,” Trevallion suggested, “she’s too good for him.”

  “Hesketh is back,” Ledbetter said. “Came in on the stage last night with those show folks. The way he was dressed you’d of thought he was a miner. That Dane Clyde come back with them, too.”

  “I heard that Redaway woman is a looker,” Tapley said. “I talked to a man saw them gettin’ down from the stage.”

  “Odd,” Trevallion said, “Hesketh dressed that way. He was never a miner, and never dressed like one.”

  “They had trouble,” Tapley said. “Old Pot Joe tried to stand them up an’ that Redaway girl backed him down.”

  “She what?”

  “Seems she was armed, and so were several of those inside and when they presented their side of the argument Joe got the point and stepped back. There was another shooting after, somebody else seemed to have the same idea Joe did, but Jacob Teale was riding the top and he cut loose. That took care of that.”

  “Jacob Teale?”

  Tapley shrugged. “Seems that show woman hired him on the trail. She just taken one look and put him on the payroll.”

  “Teale?” Ledbetter shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “What’s she want with a man like him?” Trevallion asked.

  “There’s but one reason for hiring Jacob Teale. You’ve got trouble and lots of it. But how did she know about him?”

  Tapley spat. “She didn’t. No way she could have. She just seen him and hired him, it’s simple as that.”

  Ledbetter glanced over at Trevallion. “You know him, Trev?”

  “I know him.”

  The coffee tasted good. He tasted it again and returned the cup to the saucer. Grita Redaway—unusual name, and could be the same girl. Waggoner had been out of town but would be back, by the looks of his cabin. Would he know who she was? Unlikely. But would she recognize Waggoner? That was unlikely, too, but he had been around the wagons a few times, and she could have seen him.

  Anyway, she wouldn’t need any help. A girl with the sense to hire Teale would do all right. He frowned. Why had she done it? Right quick like that? How could an actress, a city woman, have the sense to hire him? Had it been an accident, that she chose Teale? And why did she think he was needed?

  Jacob Teale was odd. He was a peculiar man by anybody’s standards, a solitary hunter, a killer as cold and remorseless as any he had ever known, but a religious, church-going man with a code right out of the Old Testament. He rarely took a drink, chewed tobacco occasionally, and was never known to curse, at least not aloud.

  Once up in the Modoc country they had been in an Indian fight together. Seven of them, all prospectors, had been trapped by a war party of young bucks out for some excitement. Two of the seven had been killed at the first volley and then it settled down to a daylong battle at long range.

  During the night the others, believing Teale and Trevallion dead, had slipped away. The fight continued through another long, hot day, and then the Modocs, tiring of the game, pulled out and left them. Teale had been down to his last two cartridges, and Trevallion’s rifle had but one ball left. He did have a pair of six-shooters with extra cylinders, however.

  Their horses gone, they had to make their way out afoot, and twice on that trek back Trevallion had killed game with his six-shooter, the first time a big-horn at better than fifty yards. The shot had gone in behind the ear, dropping the animal in its tracks.

  Teale had looked at it, glancing up. “Could have been an accident.”

  “It wasn’t,” Trevallion replied.

  A few days later, short of meat again, he killed a mule deer with an identical shot. Teale looked at it, smiled slightly, and said, “I can believe in one accident, not two.”

  After a pause he said, “Wouldn’t you say that was chancy? Wouldn’t you say behind the left foreleg or a neck shot would be better?”

  “Under normal conditions, yes. But I’ve seen a deer run a quarter of a mile after being shot right through the heart. Neither you nor me are up to a long chase right now, so I figured to drop them right where they stood.”

  Teale nodded. “Makes sense.”

  A few days later Teale killed a deer with a shot in the same place. He gestured at it. “An accident, maybe?”

  “Could be,” Trevallion said seriously. “If it happens again it will be no accident.”

  He had seen Teale only once or twice since. Each time they had but nodded or waved. He had begun hearing stories about Jacob Teale before that, and a time or two he had seen him in church.

  Odd that Grita Redaway should choose him that way, obviously seeing something there that she trusted, or preferred to have on her side.

  Restlessly he moved in his chair, glancing up the street. The town was booming, and he had a feeling he should be out and doing, but there were things to be resolved. Should he go to Grita Redaway? He was sure she was the same person as the little girl he had known, and she still must be very young, but when people had to shift for themselves they matured early. Look at Melissa, operating a growing, expanding business, and several successful mine operators whom he knew were not yet twenty. It was a time when you made it quick or you might not make it at all.

  He glanced at Ledbetter. The freighter had changed. He was better groomed these days, wearing better clothes, was seen with Hearst, Mackay, Fair, and the others who were moving ahead on the Comstock.

  Trevallion got up, and with a brief wave of the hand, walked out on the street. For a moment he hesitated, glancing up and down. Then he went back to his own mine and went to work.

  Long ago when in the mountains he had staked some timber claims, and considering the way the Comstock was using timber, they could be worth a mint. He finished drilling the round, then loaded the holes, lit the fuses, and came on top. When he heard the boom of his shots he counted them.

  Good, no missed holes. Yet it would take awhile to allow the powder smoke to dissipate. He had had too many headaches from breathing powder smoke in a confined space to want another.

  For a week he rarely left the mine or his cabin. The vein was growing wider, the ore richer. With Tapley’s help he made a small shipment, then another. Milling was no longer a problem as there were dozens, newly built, and hard at work.
It was Tapley brought him word that Grita Redaway’s play was to open.

  “You need to get out of this hole,” Tapley said. “Ledbetter’s got himself a box at the theater and he wants you to join him.”

  “Maybe.” He paused. “Is Teale still around?”

  “He’s here.” Tapley bit off a chew and rolled it in his jaws. “Gets around, he does. And mighty quiet about it. What kind of a man is he, anyway?”

  “You’ve known his kind, Tap, but he’s an odd one. He lives by the Book, up to a point. Or maybe it’s just that he reads it his own way. I’ve traveled with him, worked and fought beside him. He’s good at any of it, but if he thinks a man needs killing, he’ll kill him. He will take money for a killing, but only if he thinks it needs doing.”

  “No sign of Will Crockett. There’s talk around that he may have killed himself, or been killed.”

  “I don’t believe he’d kill himself.”

  “Nor me. Hesketh eats supper every night at the hotel. He’s moving ahead. Bought a mill that was having trouble and he’s milling his own ore.”

  Tapley got up. “What will I tell Ledbetter?”

  “I’ll be there. Meet him at the bakery.”

  When Tap was gone he went and got out his black broadcloth suit. It was wrinkled from being packed, so he heated up a teakettle and when it was steaming, held the spout close to the suit and slowly worked the wrinkles out, with much reheating of the water, moving the spout up and down over the fabric.

  Then he got out a white shirt and a collar, collar buttons, and cuff links. He hadn’t been dressed up in over a year, the last time for a funeral.

  He never missed a theatrical performance when he was in the area, and having a quick, accurate memory, he had learned parts of the plays from often hearing them. His reading consisted of whatever books or magazines were floating around the mining camps, which was generally good literature. Coming west in a wagon where every ounce of weight must be carefully judged, those who brought books brought the best, those which would stand continual rereading.