Comstock Lode

by Louis L'Amour

  He finished pouring the coffee. “Trev, he tried to kill you up in Six Mile or wherever you were. At least, you figured it was him. Well, why’d he try to kill you? Because he knew who you were! He spotted you. He remembered you.”

  “He couldn’t have. I was only a boy.”

  “Why else would he take a shot at you? And you said somebody rigged a missed-hole for you. If it ain’t him, it’s somebody else. You got any other enemies around?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “You staked out that claim up there next to the Solomon. Ol’ Hesketh couldn’t have been too happy about that.”

  “That was after. And I don’t know Hesketh. I’ve never even seen the man, not to know who he is.”

  Tapley finished his coffee and got up. “I’ll be around come morning to start work. You take care, you hear? That Waggoner’s a mean, tough man.”

  Christian Tapley walked down the slope frowning. Suddenly, on the spur of the moment, he turned toward the International. He was walking across the lobby when he saw Teale watching him from the door of the billiard room. Turning, he crossed to him. “Want to set a minute? We’ve got talkin’ to do.”

  When they were seated, Tap said, “Supposin’ you just listen an’ let me talk a bit? There’s something you should know.”

  Teale did not reply, he simply waited. Tapley gestured to indicate the upper floors. “You’re watchin’ over Miss Redaway. You let her ride off by herself.”

  “She wanted to ride alone. She said she wanted to think.”

  Tapley told about her riding up the canyon. “Trevallion rode up after her, and when he came up to her she was cornered by this here Waggoner. He came up just in time to know there’d been hard words betwixt ’em without him hearin’ anything. Waggoner seemed almighty put out when Trevallion showed up, but after a few words, he rode off. Trev rode back to town with her.”

  Tapley explained his feelings about Waggoner, and repeated the story Trevallion had told him. Teale held up a hand. “I know the story,” he said.

  He was thinking back, remembering other things. He got up. “There’s no show tonight. Tapley, could you stay here, take over for me until about tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I’ve promised Trev to lend a hand over there.”

  “One more day won’t matter. I got things to do. You take care of her, you hear?”

  “I hear.”

  Jacob Teale went to the stable and saddled his horse. He was going to do something he had meant to do before this, and should have done. He had been remiss. Only, Margrita Redaway had needed him.

  He was leading his horse from the stable when he saw Langford Peel across the street, watching him. Peel was smoking a cigar, and when he saw Jacob had seen him, Peel strolled across the street. “Ridin’ out?”

  “A ways.”

  “Stage trail?”

  “Could be.”

  “Hear there was some shootin’ out yonder the other night.”

  “A mite.”

  “That explains the body, then.”

  Teale was quiet for a moment and then he said, “I fired, but I had nothing certain to shoot at and I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Didn’t say you did. Just figured you might want to know about the body they found alongside the trail out there. He was lying on his face in the dust, and he’d been shot twice, in the back.”

  “Anybody we know?”

  “Frisco man, runner for a dive down there, sneak-thief, whatever. He was riding one of the express ponies. Horse showed up at his stable, and the hostler made inquiries. Whoever the dead man was, he made a fast ride from Frisco to Virginia City, switching horses often.” Peel dusted ash from his cigar. “He didn’t know he was riding to his own death.”

  “Thanks, Peel.”

  Peel touched his hat with a finger. “Professional courtesy, Mr. Teale, simply professional courtesy!”

  * * *

  —

  Jacob Teale camped in the woods that night and was on the ground shortly after daybreak. The sign was several days old, but except for the trail it was an area where few people came. He found where two riders had waited, one of whom had smoked many cigarettes, obviously nervous.

  They were the men he had shot at from the stage-top, for the position was the same, as he expected. But then one man had murdered the other. Why? In a fit of rage, when the holdup failed? But why? It had not been the one man’s fault, unless—

  That horse had leaped into the road. That might be it. But they had waited calmly. It had been the nervous man who was shot, not the other. And from the tracks, the other man had ridden swiftly away.

  Teale picked up the trail and followed it across a couple of shortcuts. The man knew the country. A big man, riding a big horse. He would remember the tracks.

  Jacob Teale was quite sure he knew who the strange rider had been. What he did not know was why he had been there to attempt a holdup, or why the other man had been killed.

  But he had a pretty good idea.

  He rode back to town and relieved Tapley, thanking him. Tap asked no questions, and Teale sat down to think and to wait for Miss Redaway to come down the stairs.

  The night the stage had come in, Teale had dropped off the stage and stood back among the crowd. He had seen Waggoner, the man who hurried until he reached the stage and then no longer hurried. To see who had shot at him?

  Waggoner was not a road agent, so why was he acting as one on that night? Was he there to hold up the stage or to kill someone?

  Margrita Redaway came down the stairs, and Jacob Teale stood up and moved toward her.

  “How do you do, Mr. Teale? A lovely evening, is it not?”

  “It is, ma’am. Shall we go?”

  CHAPTER 43

  With Tapley working with him Trevallion’s drilling went much faster. With one man holding the drill while the other struck with the eight-pound double-jack, the drilling was easier, even allowing for time to clean out the holes. When they paused to “take five,” Tapley commented, “You’re a good hand with that sledge. Ever get into one of the contests?”

  “A time or two. I used to box some in the celebrations, too. Or do some Cornish-style wrestling. I don’t know who started it, but every Fourth of July there was always a contest going. But I preferred the boxing.”

  “You win?”

  “Uh-huh, here and there.” He hefted the sledge. “Swinging this is good for the punch, and I was on the end of one of these from the time I could lift one. The same thing with a muck-stick—shovel, to you.”

  “Yeah, I’m no miner. Worked at it here and there, but I like it up on top. I’ve timbered, though, and laid a lot of track.”

  Tapley paused. “Want some coffee? I’m fixing to go on top and make some.”

  “All right, but be careful up there. They might think you’re me.”

  Tapley indicated the hat Trevallion wore. “I got to get me one of them hard hats.”

  “You don’t get them, Tap, you make them. You just get a common felt hat and stiffen it with linseed oil. Takes a lot of work. Some favor resin. In fact, I do myself. Rub it into the hat again and again, and after a while it builds up. Better do it if you’re going to work underground. It will save a lot of raps on the skull.”

  Tapley took his candle and started for the ladder. At the foot of the ladder he stopped, took his gun-belt from a peg driven into the wall, and slung it around his hips.

  Trevallion spooned out the holes they had completed and stepped back, studying the layout. Then he loaded the holes, spit the fuses, and went back along the drift. He slung his gun-belt over a shoulder, not waiting to buckle it on, and scrambled up the ladder. The first shot boomed before he reached the end of the tunnel, snuffing out his light. As he could see the light at the end of the tunnel he did not bother to light it again.

 
; Suddenly he paused. He was still well back inside the tunnel and he was, as he made a half turn, facing toward the new ground he had bought from the Dutchman. There was nothing to attract him at the point, but he made a decision. He would hold off on his freshly begun shaft and start drifting into the Dutchman’s claim.

  “Makes no sense,” Tapley said, “but it’s your claim.”

  Trevallion shrugged. “In my time I’ve done a lot of things that made no sense. Call it a hunch.”

  “Your money’s in the pot, son,” Tapley said. “Whatever you want. But if you’ll notice, that ground falls away over there, and you keep on going very far and you’ll be right out under the stars again.”

  Trevallion smiled. “Maybe that’s the idea.”

  He bathed himself as best he could, shaved, and putting on his dark suit, he went downtown. In his inside coat pocket he took the papers he must discuss with Margrita.

  He glanced toward the bakery. He had scarcely been near the place since Melissa left. There had been no word from her except a card to Eilley Bowers. It was from San Francisco.

  He took out his watch and glanced at it. The play was more than half over, so he directed his steps toward the theater. The street was crowded as usual.

  A big ore wagon rumbled past, drawn by six head of mules. He had started across the street and suddenly he glimpsed the boots and legs of somebody on the other side of the wagon, waiting for it to pass. Turning sharply, he walked toward the head of the slow-moving wagon, then running, he ducked around ahead of the team and stopped.

  A man stood in the center of the street with a drawn gun, staring wildly about.

  “Looking for me?”

  People had stopped, watching as the man turned, lifting his gun. “Yes, damn you!”

  Trevallion’s side was toward him. He stood tall and alone, waiting.

  Only seconds passed, yet it seemed like hours. With a kind of curious detachment, he saw the man’s gun coming up, he heard somebody yell, and there was a surge of people on the street, some rushing to see, some crowding to get out of the way. They were the smart ones.

  The man’s back was to the light, his face in darkness. The gun was lifting. Trevallion drew and fired.

  The man’s gun went off, the bullet striking the earth with an angry splutt only inches from his boot. Gun in hand he walked slowly toward the fallen man, watching but unworried. He knew where his bullet had gone.

  People crowded around. Among them was Peel. He glanced at the body, then, with an odd smile, at Trevallion. “Bucking for my job?” he asked lightly.

  “No, Farmer, but I think he was.”

  Somebody turned the man over, and it was Kip Hauser. “I’ll be damned,” Peel said. “He always struck me as a sure thing man.”

  “I believe he thought it was,” Trevallion said mildly. Then he walked on across the street and to the stage door.

  They stopped him there. “I want to see Miss Redaway,” he said.

  “So do a couple of hundred others,” the doorman said, grinning. “Sorry, but—”

  “Let him in.” It was Jacob Teale. “Let him in any time he wants to come.”

  The doorman shrugged and stepped back.

  “Heard some shootin’,” Teale said. “What was it? Some drunk?”

  “I don’t think he was drunk,” Trevallion said, “I think he was paid.”

  “Want to wait here?” Teale asked. “She’ll be finishing up in just a few minutes.” He pointed. “Stand in the wings if you like.”

  * * *

  —

  Albert Hesketh received the news over a late supper in the International. He was seated alone at his table when he heard the shots. He paused a moment in his chewing, then continued.

  John Santley came into the dining room, and seeing him, crossed to his table. “I have the information you wanted, Mr. Hesketh,” he said. “The Sandusky is—”

  “Please!” Hesketh’s voice was sharp. “Not here. I never talk business over food.” Then he added, “Just leave what you have and I’ll go over it.” He looked up. “You are late, Mr. Santley.”

  “Yes, sir. There was a crowd in the street, sir. There’s been another killing, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  There was a hint of question in the tone and John Santley said, “It was a Kip Hauser, sir. He was one of Sam Brown’s crowd.”

  “He killed someone?”

  “No. Oh, no, sir! He was killed. Two shots, sir, fired so rapidly they sounded as one. They were all talking about it. Two bullets, one through the heart, one in the throat.”

  “I see. The other man was arrested?”

  “Oh, no, sir! It was self-defense, sir. A dozen men said Hauser had his gun drawn before the other man made a move.”

  “I see.”

  His face was utterly still, not a flicker of emotion. Inside he was seething. What a pack of fools! Couldn’t anybody do anything right?

  “The other man was very calm, sir. He walked down the street and went into the theater.”

  The theater? God damn him!

  * * *

  —

  The curtain came down and the applause was deafening. Virginia City enjoyed its theater and liked the performers, but above all it liked a good time. Especially it appreciated the freshness of the Redaway Company costumes and the ease and naturalness of the players.

  Margrita came offstage, flushed and lovely. She saw Trevallion at once and stopped abruptly. Then she walked toward him, both hands outstretched. “Val! How nice of you to come!”

  “You’d better go back,” he said. “They are still applauding.”

  “You’ll wait? I’ll only be a minute!”

  She returned to the stage and the curtain went up. Four more curtain calls and then she came offstage.

  “Val? Will you have supper with me? Mr. Manfred has some business to discuss, so he and Mr. Clyde will be with us for a few minutes, then we can talk. Is it all right?”

  “Of course. I am afraid mine is business, too. At least,” he added, “part of it is business.”

  “Can’t we skip that part? I want to know what you’ve been doing all these years.”

  She went on into her dressing room, and Val turned to see Teale approaching. “Are you going to be with her for supper?” Teale asked.

  “I believe so. At least, I’ve been invited.”

  “Good! I need some time and she will be safe with you.” He hesitated. “Who was it got killed out there tonight?”

  “Kip Hauser.”

  “Had it coming for a long time, but that’s a bothersome thing. Somehow he didn’t seem likely to end that way. I mean, he was careful, real careful. He was mean, but he wasn’t quarrelsome.”

  “I think he was paid. I started across the street and all of a sudden I see somebody on the other side. It looked too quick to suit me, so I ran around the head of the team. You know there’s a grade right along there, and those heavy ore wagons move pretty slow.

  “Hauser had a gun in his hand and seemed startled when I wasn’t there. He’d planned to have me at point blank range and surprised. The way it happened, I spoke to him and he turned, and he was surprised.”

  “I reckon. Him an’ that crowd run roughshod over everybody while Sam Brown was alive. Now they’ve come on hard times.” He paused. “She know it yet?”

  “No. It will be a shock. She’s not been raised the way we were, Jacob.”

  “No, sir. Surely not. They still shoot each other now and again, but they do it all formal-like, with challenges, callin’ cards, and seconds and all.”

  Teale turned away. “Hope she ain’t too upset by it. Women do take on, sometimes, although she seems a common-sense sort of person.”

  He looked back at Trevallion. “She does beat all. The way she hired me, just seen me and hired me. I
can’t figure it out.”

  “I can, Jacob. She’s learned to read people and she saw that you were a good man, a trustworthy man, and one who would stand.” He paused again. “Jacob, I have a bad feeling about this. They tried to rob her in Frisco, I hear, and they tried to rob her on the way over. Whatever she’s got, somebody wants it mighty bad.”

  “That’s my thinkin’.”

  “You were on the stage, Jacob. Do you remember who was with you?”

  “Ever’one. Hesketh was there, and two strangers. I ain’t seen either of them since, which doesn’t mean they ain’t around.

  “Mr. Trevallion, I wouldn’t tell this to anybody but you, but there was a man on that stage somebody wanted killed. The word come to me and the price. Now I was right down to bedrock and showin’ no color, but I don’t do that kind of work. If a man needs killin’ I ain’t one to balk at it, but I knowed—knew—nothin’ about Mr. Hesketh, and I knew a lot about the man who wanted him dead. That man was in San Francisco.

  “Now I was ridin’ the top and somethin’ didn’t smell right about the whole affair, so I laid ready, and when that man showed up along the road, I cut loose. I wasn’t shootin’ at anything, just tryin’ to show whoever was there that they should pull in their necks. They done so.

  “Later, a dead man was found up there but he was none of my killin’. He was a San Francisco man, sort of a runner for some of the Barb’ry Coast outfits. He’d been shot in the back.”

  “You found him?”

  “Well, I scouted around. There’d been two of them. One was a big man on a big horse. That man came back to Washoe.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “Mebbe I do an’ mebbe I don’t, but I asked a few folks, and it seems that San Francisco gent rode in here in an awful big hurry. To get where they were they had to ride out almost immediate. Whatever they were to do had to be done right away, whether it was rob Miss Redaway or kill somebody.”

  “But one shot the other?”

  “Uh-huh. The San Francisco man got shot. Now why was he killed? Did he jump the gun by gettin’ out into the road like he done? Was the other man mad because of that? Mebbe.