Comstock Lode

by Louis L'Amour

  Odd, he was sleeping so quietly she couldn’t even hear him breathe. He…she got up quickly and went to the bed.

  * * *

  —

  Deliberately, Albert Hesketh took his time over his meal, ignoring the bustle and stir around him. He wanted everybody to be aware of him, and that he had been there a long time. Nobody, he was sure, would remember just when he came in, only that he seemed to have been there forever.

  Finally, he took up his paper again, ordered another cup of coffee and a brandy, and sat back slowly, relaxing.

  Over an hour; by now they should know, by now they would have discovered that Will Crockett was dead.

  Hesketh finished his coffee and was about to rise when he saw Waggoner.

  The big man was across the room, standing alone, a glass of champagne in his hand. Waggoner’s eyes swept over the room, passed him, never even halting. Of course, Waggoner did not know him, and would not know him unless there had been some fleeting memory.

  The thought made him remember his brief meeting with Trevallion in Margrita Redaway’s rooms. There had been a flicker of something in Trevallion’s eyes, of doubt, the stirring of a memory, of suspicion.

  Trevallion had seemed on the verge of recalling something, of remembering.

  It did not matter. Trevallion must go. If Waggoner could not handle it, others could. He might even do it himself.

  But at once, for now, there was no more time.

  * * *

  —

  Trevallion wore his black suit and his gun. He met Margrita in the lobby where she was talking with Clyde and Manfred.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I am afraid I am late.”

  “Will Crockett is dead.” She turned to him as she spoke. “Mr. Manfred believes it is murder.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He was smothered.” Manfred’s eyes were like ice. “I have seen the look before. No matter what the nurse says, she must have left the room.”

  “She denies it?”

  “She does. I believe she came down to get a drink. In fact, one of the waiters remembers seeing her.”

  “Where was Hesketh?”

  “In the dining room, in very plain sight, being served his dinner as always, in the same seat as always.”

  “He wouldn’t do it himself, anyway,” Clyde said.

  Manfred glanced at him. “Of course he would. Have you ever really looked at him? I have. He would kill you without turning a hair.”

  He turned slightly, looking from Margrita to Trevallion. “You two are next, believe me, I know. Look at it seriously. He now has possession of the Solomon. It represents a lot of money and if one wishes to use it, that money means power. Will Crockett’s return threatened Hesketh’s control. Crockett is conveniently dead. So who threatens him now?”

  “I suspect that I do,” Margrita said, “or so somebody seems to believe.”

  “And you do,” Manfred said to Trevallion. “For some reason you worry him.”

  “I’ve been worrying somebody,” Trevallion replied mildly, “ever since I came to Virginia City.”

  “Ever since you came back,” Manfred said.

  Trevallion gave him a sharp glance. “What’s that mean?”

  “Hadn’t you been here before?” Manfred pointed down the canyon. “Isn’t your father buried down there?”

  He had their attention now, but suddenly his manner changed. “We’re none of us here by accident. Oh, maybe Clyde is, but we are not. This place,” he gestured widely, “it has a fatal attraction for us. Trevallion and me because we remembered the place, and Miss Redaway because her family was coming west for gold and something drove her to complete what had been begun.

  “Don’t ask me why, except, well, my family are buried down there, too.”

  “I had no idea,” Margrita exclaimed. “Somehow I never suspected.”

  He shrugged. “Nobody does. Because I lived abroad for a while they all believe I’m a bloody foreigner. I’m not.”

  He stared at Trevallion. “I remember you, although you don’t remember me. I don’t think you even saw me, although I was around.”

  “Saw you? Where?”

  “On the wagon train, coming west. My name wasn’t Manfred then. I owe Lord Byron for that. I borrowed the name from his poem because that Manfred sold his soul to the devil and got away with it. When the devil came to take possession, he had become too strong for him, and refused him. I did that, too, in a way. Only I wasn’t strong enough so I ran away. I got away.”

  “You were on the wagon train with us?”

  “Yes. My name was Thompson then.”

  “Thompson! But Thompson was the family that drove off into the basin after a mirage.”

  “Exactly. My father was a bull-headed, foolish man, Mr. Trevallion. That does not say he was not kind or a good provider. Also, he was not a trusting man, and that, at least, I inherited from him.”

  He paused, looking around, then he added, “One thing you must grasp. Albert Hesketh is a completely self-centered man in its most extreme sense. He has nothing of what we call conscience, and fear in its usual sense is utterly foreign to him.

  “My father took us off the trail into the desert after a mirage. By the time he realized the lake we thought we saw kept receding before us, it was too late. He tried to turn the team around and got bogged down. He had valuable tools in the wagon and would not leave them.

  “We tried to get him to take the oxen and walk out but he refused. Working in the blazing sun, fighting to get the wagon turned, his heart failed him and he died right there.

  “The heat was frightful and we had no water after the first few hours. We buried my father and just doing that took a lot out of us. Two of the oxen died there and we unhitched the others. I got my mother on one of the oxen and my sisters on the other. We’d come miles, and going back was mostly uphill.

  “My mother had been ill a lot, and she lasted longer than I expected, but she went, too, and then my sisters.

  “I buried them, after a fashion. And then this man came along. He was alone but he had six pack burros. He gave me a little water, when I had almost passed out, then he gave me more.

  “ ‘Where you from, boy? Where’s your wagon?’ I pointed and he told me to get up and we’d go back. He asked what was in it and I told him and he started back. I didn’t want to go. ‘You want to get out of here don’t you, boy? You help me and I’ll take you out.’

  “We went back to our wagon, and he had me help him load everything of value on those burros. Then he asked me where the money was. I asked ‘What money?’ and he said, ‘Don’t give me trouble, boy, or you can stay right here an’ die. Everybody has a little money. Where is it?’

  “I wanted to get out. I wanted to live, and I was scared of him. Ma had given me what money she’d had from pa when he was dying, so I gave him that.

  “We started out and I suddenly realized he intended to kill me or leave me to die, but he needed my help right then.

  “Before we got to the trail—he wasn’t using the main emigrant trail—we found another wagon. There was nobody around, so he went through the wagon, taking everything of value and loading it.

  “I was exhausted and wanted to quit, but I knew if I did he’d leave me. After a while, it was almost dusk, we started on. He seemed to pay no attention to me and didn’t stop even when I fell. Finally when it was almost dark he called to me. He’d stopped back of a big old sand dune with some rocks around, and some brush. I was scared of him and when he called again, I ran.

  “I was behind the mules which were following him, and he had to ride out from them to see me, and I dropped behind a rock and then began to crawl. He started for where I was, and I ran again. He shot at me, and I fell just like I’d been shot, then I rolled over and crawled. There was a big old rock
there with a kind of shelf out from it. I crawled under that. He finally gave up hunting and rode off.”

  “Some of those people,” Trevallion commented, “planned to return and pick up their wagons.”

  Manfred shrugged. “So? He didn’t care. He looted them and sold whatever he got from their wagons, sold it later, in California.”

  “And that man was Albert Hesketh?” Margrita suggested.

  “It was.”

  “Has he seen you now, here?”

  “He may have. Of course, I am older now and I’ve changed a lot.” He paused. “That was over three hundred dollars he took from me. God knows how much he got from others, or other wagons.”

  “There’s Eilley Bowers,” Margrita said. “I must speak to her. Will you excuse me?”

  Clyde went with her and Manfred stood alone with Trevallion, who said, “Odd, how we were so close then and never met. But then, how many people on a wagon train ever know the others? A few, maybe, and that’s all.”

  “What I told you wasn’t all,” Manfred said.

  “No?”

  “He caught me again. He made me go with him into the desert and loot wagons. Once I helped him bury a man who’d been shot in the back. When we picked him up his body was still warm, and it was at night. That man had been killed within the hour.”

  “By Hesketh?”

  “Who else? Nobody was around, he took me right to that wagon. Knew right where it was.”

  “What about you?”

  “He shot me one evening, just casually turned and shot me. The bullet knocked me out and cut my scalp very badly. I was all blood and he believed me dead, so he just rolled me over into a dry wash and caved the bank over me.

  “It was night and he did not see that part of my face was uncovered. When I became conscious I crawled out and got away to California, picked up by a wagonload of actors, as a matter of fact.”

  Laughter and the clink of glasses came across the room. “He killed Crockett,” Manfred added, “although I am sure it cannot be proved.

  “One thing we must remember. Albert Hesketh is a very fastidious man. He likes every package neatly done up with all the loose ends cut away.”

  Manfred glanced from Margrita, standing across the room, to Trevallion. “And we three? We are loose ends.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Trevallion sat over a cup of coffee in the bakery with Jim Ledbetter. “Like old times,” Ledbetter said.

  Trevallion gestured toward the town outside. “It’s changed. It’s a city now, where it used to be just a bunch of squatters on a barren mountainside, living in the brush like a bunch of jackrabbits.”

  Melissa came to the table. “Mind if I sit down?” She put her cup down, and then joined them. “I’m sorry about Will. He was a good man.”

  “He was that,” Ledbetter agreed. “Too good.”

  The coffee was hot and it tasted good. Trevallion put his cup down and thought of Margrita, useless thoughts for him. Now, as soon as she took control of the Solomon, she would be a wealthy woman, and a wealthy and beautiful young woman wouldn’t want a man from the mining camps.

  It was time to drift, time to go off down the trail talking to himself. It was deep enough.

  He spoke the words aloud, without thinking. When a miner said it was deep enough it meant he was pulling his stakes.

  “You leaving?” Ledbetter said.

  “A few loose ends,” he said, and then recalled Manfred’s comment.

  The door shoved opened, slamming back hard. A man stood in the doorway, swaying a little. His clothes were muddy as though he had fallen, and he was very drunk. It was Alfie.

  Melissa stood up quickly. He stared at her, swaying. “Good ol’ ’Lissy! ’Lissy, I’m broke. I need some money. I—”

  “I am sorry. I have nothing for you.”

  The smile left his face. “What you mean you got nothin’ for me? Now you listen here!”

  “Alfie,” Melissa spoke quietly, but with dignity, “I must ask you to leave.”

  He stared at her. “You don’t tell me to leave. You don’t—”

  “Leave, Alfie, and don’t come back. You took all the money I had and left me sick in bed. Go away.”

  He started forward but suddenly Ledbetter stood between them. “The lady said you were to go. Now go or I’ll give you a horsewhipping!”

  Alfie stared at them, sullen with anger. “I’ll go, damn you! But you ain’t so much, you—”

  Jim Ledbetter was a mild man, but his fists were not. Jim Ledbetter knocked him down, and then, taking Alfie by the collar, he dragged him to the door and put him outside, closing the door as he returned.

  “Thank you, Jim,” Melissa said.

  “That’s all right, ma’am.”

  * * *

  —

  At the Bucket of Blood Saloon Mousel thrust his hand into his coat pocket, hoping to find the price of a beer. His hand encountered a piece of paper, the corner of an envelope, actually. In it were tucked two gold eagles and on it was written, “You are going to shoot him, anyway. Why not now?”

  He stared at it, blinking slowly. Then he stepped to the bar. The bartender, his mouth open to refuse, saw the gold piece and drew the beer.

  Mousel gulped some of the beer. Somebody was using him. Well, he’d be damned if…but, why not? He was going to, he had come to town with that intent, so why not?

  Forty dollars was not much but it was more than he had coming at the Solomon.

  Why not? And why not now?

  The pistol he had now was a Remington Navy. It was a good pistol, too. He drank more of the beer. He should shoot her, too. She was the one. Got real uppity, didn’t she? Well, he’d show—

  The door swung back and Alfie came in. Mousel had the beer in his left hand but as their eyes met, Mousel reached for the Remington in his waistband and drew it. He glimpsed the look of startled horror on Alfie’s face, and Alfie’s hand came up, thrusting toward him, palm out.

  Mousel fired.

  Men turned from the bar, startled. Mousel was gripping the Remington; Alfie was dead on the floor, his hands empty.

  A man bent over him, then he straightened up slowly, rubbing his hands down the front of his pants. “He’s dead, all right,” the man spoke quietly but sternly, “and he’s unarmed. He has no gun.”

  Mousel’s chin began to tremble. All eyes were on him. “Now, look here!” he protested. “This man—”

  He turned and stumbled toward the door, only as he opened it, a man was coming in. A man wearing a badge.

  “It’s murder,” one man said, “shot an unarmed man.”

  Mousel’s flabby cheeks trembled and his eyes watered. “It ain’t like that!” he protested. “He…that man…well…” The words trailed off. “He stole my woman,” he managed at last.

  Trevallion stood in the door. “That’s not true,” he said, speaking to the officer. “I was there, Hank, and so was Jim Ledbetter. The lady to whom he refers hired a mule from Ledbetter and came in with one of his caravans. I was riding in the same bunch. The dead man was nowhere around when the lady left Placerville.”

  Searching Mousel for a weapon, Hank found the corner of the envelope, the other gold piece and the change. “Paid for it? Forty bucks? You bought yourself a noose for forty dollars?”

  Hank turned to Trevallion. “Did you ever see Bill Stewart? He’s been asking for you.”

  “I’ll look him up.” He was standing near Hank and he spoke softly. “Looks like an open and shut case. He shot an unarmed man. All this talk about a woman, that doesn’t have to be mentioned, does it?”

  Hank shrugged. “Not so far’s I’m concerned.”

  “Have you seen Tapley?”

  Hank shook his head. “Not this evenin’. You want him?”

  “I do.”

 
“I’ll send him along if I see him, but you see Bill, it’s important—to all of us.”

  “Hank? Can I see that note? The one you found in Mousel’s pocket?”

  Hank showed it to him. “Know the writin’?”

  “No, no, I don’t.”

  Hank turned to Mousel. “Who gave you this?”

  Mousel’s flabby cheeks were sagging, his eyes were wide and frightened. “It was in…in my pocket. I jus’ found it there.”

  “You’re a liar,” Hank said contemptuously.

  “He may not be,” Trevallion said. “He may be telling the truth. I just think he killed the wrong man.”

  He went back to the hotel, walking with awareness. Will Crockett was dead, murdered. Alfie was dead, too, but who would care about Alfie? Nobody wanted Alfie dead. At the worst he was merely a nuisance. He had gambled a little, cheated a little, lived off women. Nobody cared enough to want him dead. Whoever had slipped that note into Mousel’s pocket, or had it slipped there, had believed Mousel would kill somebody else.

  Him. Mousel had it in for him, too, and whoever had slipped that note and the money to Mousel had thought he would kill Trevallion.

  Stewart was not in his office, and Trevallion returned to his mine. Tapley was already at work, and there were three men with him. Two were working in the new drift, drilling holes for a round of shots. Trevallion was restless and worried, and in no mood for work.

  Back in the cabin he hung his gun-belt over a chairback and heated some water for shaving.

  He had it to do. Waggoner and the other two had tried to kill him, and he knew where Waggoner holed up. He should find him, now. He had no desire to spend the rest of his life expecting a bullet in the back or being on guard every second.

  He lathered his face, thinking about it and the possible reaction if he hunted them down and shot it out.

  Grita? How would she feel? What would her reaction be?

  He stropped his razor, tested the edge, and began to shave. He wanted no killing. He hated no man, not even the killer of Will Crockett, although the man should be punished.