He read over the note. It was being done too swiftly, but there was no other choice. It was now or never, and he hoped his message would not be lost on Les and his partner.
Two hundred fifty dollars each, $500 in all…in other words, the survivor might find himself with the whole $500, and no need to share. Might that not be a temptation too great to resist when a lot of shooting was going on, anyway?
Waggoner would be at the Solomon or returning. The others would probably be at some saloon, yet even if they saw him, something he did not wish to happen, they would not long be around to enjoy their knowledge. He put on his hat, took up the cane he had begun carrying, and went down to the lobby.
As he left the International he saw Teale from the corner of his eye, seated on a bench near the hotel door, where he often was.
Virginia City was, even in late afternoon or evening, a noisy, busy town. Stamp-mills were going, compressors were pounding, teamsters cursing their mules, and the usual sounds of laughter, pianos, and bawdy song from the saloons.
He had worked out several methods of getting messages to Waggoner, but none of these would work with Les and his partner, for they had not been instructed beforehand. He must take the risk and deliver the note right to Waggoner’s cabin.
What if Waggoner discovered it first? Well and good. Teale would be eliminated in any event, but then Teale might kill Waggoner and this Hesketh did not want. Waggoner he needed, for a little while longer.
He wore his neat gray suit, and he strolled casually, pausing from time to time to look at the face of the city. He knew he would be observed and expected it, but he had already set the stage with his previous walks. They would dismiss him at a glance.
There was no light in the window, although it was early for that, and there was no sign of activity. He paused, twice he picked up bits of rock and examined them before casting them aside. That, too, was the usual thing in Virginia City where everyone at the time had minerals on the mind.
Pausing to study the rocks, he studied the cabin. It looked safe. After all, he could just say he was looking for a miner, he wanted more help at the Solomon.
In his pocket was the note, and in his pocket was the gold. He hated to pay out money, but in this case there was at least a chance he would never have to complete the bargain. With luck they would take care of both Teale and each other.
He paused again, touching his brow with a linen handkerchief. Still no movement. The place was probably empty.
He knew where the note should go, as he had used the place before this. It was a mail slot made of an open-ended cigar box built into the wall. On the outside there was a little wooden door. He had never seen the inside.
He glanced around. Nobody was around. Nobody was watching. He stopped in front of the cabin, lifting his fist to knock, then dropping his hand to open the slot. Inside he placed the note and the gold.
He lowered the little door and turned away. He had not taken a step when he heard the door open behind him. He had taken a second step before he heard the voice.
Inwardly, he cringed. He felt the muscles in his back tighten and he fought down an impulse to run. Then he turned as the voice said, “Well, look what we got here, Rig! We got us a visitor!”
He knew their faces. They were older now, their features seamed with the tracks of years gone by, but they were the men he remembered.
“How do you do, gentlemen? Can I help you in some way?”
“You can tell us who you are.”
“I believe that would serve no purpose for either of us.” The message was there, the gold was there. To attempt to play the innocent would be absurd. A bold face was needed. “We have little time for nonsense. Who I am or who you are does not matter. There is a note in the box. There is also the sum of two hundred dollars in gold. I would suggest you read the message, put the gold in your pockets, and do what is suggested. If you want the other three hundred.”
“He’s talkin’ money, Les. He really is. Maybe we should listen.”
“This money for us or for Waggoner?”
“It is for you, but you must act quickly. The day after tomorrow, even tomorrow, and you’d be wasting time.”
“How’d you know about us?”
“I make it my business to know useful people. I need an expert job done now, and I mean now. I’d prefer it be done within the next two hours.”
“And you got three hundred more when it’s done? That’s two-fifty apiece. Who is this guy?”
“His name is Teale.” Briefly, he described him. “A few minutes ago he was sitting on a bench down by the International. I would suggest you give him no warning.”
They both looked at him. “What’s that mean?”
“Only that he is armed, and I would presume such a man might be dangerous. So why get hurt? You can always say he was going for his gun. Or that he killed your maiden aunt back in Memphis.”
“Five hundred dollars? Way I heard it you didn’t pay so much.”
“There are two of you. It must be done at once. You men are expert in your, your profession. For top work, I pay a top dollar.”
He drew out his watch. “I must be going, gentlemen, but I’d prefer the job be done within the hour. Tomorrow morning your three hundred dollars will be in that box.”
Rig leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb. He had a sly, taunting look in his eyes. “Suppose we just keep the two hundred an’ do nothin’?”
Hesketh smiled, and it was not a nice smile. “Then it would be my problem, would it not? Fortunately, I have had it happen but once.”
Abruptly, he turned his back and walked away. When he was back on C Street he paused. Now, they would have to die, one way or another.
He went inside and seated himself at his usual table in the dining room. The Territorial Enterprise and a San Francisco paper were folded neatly beside his place.
He unfolded the paper and sat back in his chair a little. He was suddenly frightened.
That man, that Jacob Teale, the way he had looked at him as he came up the steps. Almost as if he knew.
But that was nonsense. How could he know? How could he even guess at what was to happen in the next few minutes?
Nonetheless…
Albert Hesketh folded his newspaper and placed it beside him. That fellow Twain was writing again, the one so many thought amusing. So far he had said nothing about the Solomon or about him, but if he did—
He glanced at the menu, but it had not changed from the day before. He ordered, indicated his wine glass should be filled, and composed himself.
Any time now…just any time.
His brow was beaded with perspiration. Keep cool, he told himself. Just keep cool.
The waiter filled his glass. He watched the wine flow into the glass. Red, like blood.
Blood? What was the matter with him, anyway? He had been through this before. It was nothing. They would come and—
Somebody dropped a plate and some silver and he jumped as if shot. Then slowly, he settled back.
God! It had to work! It must work!
The sharp barking roar of the guns was almost anticlimactic. Three rapid shots, so close together they could scarcely be distinguished, then a single, final shot…and silence.
CHAPTER 53
When Trevallion and Margrita reached the Solomon, it lay warm in the afternoon sun. The cluster of buildings huddled together on a miniature plateau where the road ended. A long building on the left housed three offices, designated by doorplates: Superintendent, Business Office, and Assay.
At the backside of the small plateau was the hoisting-engine house and in front of it the head-frame and the collar of the shaft.
Facing the offices on the other edge of the flat surface were the blacksmith shop, toolshed, and the bins where the ore was dumped when hoisted. The Solomon was,
as yet, a small operation and not to be compared with the Hale & Norcross, the Savage, Ophir, or many another along the lode. Will Crockett had listened too long to Albert Hesketh, and Hesketh had deliberately hindered development to gain control with less trouble.
“If the mine is to be worked properly,” Trevallion suggested, “you will need capital. You need to go deeper, drift into my claim—”
“But it is your claim,” she protested.
He shrugged. “We can face that problem when we come to it. I filed it in my name and Will Crockett’s, and as his heir you would own part of it, anyway.”
“But you did that for Will. I wouldn’t hold you to that.”
“I don’t welsh my bets,” he said. “I’ll retain my half but we can work it together.”
The door of the business office opened, and Santley stepped out. “How do you do?” he addressed Trevallion. “I know you by sight, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I’m Trevallion. Mr. Santley, this is Miss Redaway.”
“How do you do? I hope you are not thinking of going into the mine, Mr. Trevallion? The men are all off work now. If you could come back on Monday—”
“If I want to go below,” Trevallion said, “I’ll climb down the man-way.”
“Well, but it is dangerous, you know, and we had a note from Mr. Hesketh particularly warning Miss Redaway not to go into Forty-Nine. It is a closed area.”
“Why?” Margrita asked. “Why is it closed?”
“Because it is dangerous, I presume. Mr. Hesketh does not communicate with me. I mean he makes his own plans and keeps them to himself.”
“You’ve seen the assay reports?” Trevallion asked.
“No, sir. They go directly to Mr. Hesketh. Mr. Shinmaker, he’s the assayer, he has orders to talk to no one, and he won’t. Not a word.”
Santley glanced around. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you, ma’am, but Mr. Hesketh stopped work there very abruptly, in Forty-Nine, I mean. For no reason that I can think of. Just ordered the men out and closed it off with some timbers. A fencelike…but nothing one couldn’t go past, if one wished.”
He paused again. “They may have had some trouble with mud, you know.”
“We’ll just look around,” Trevallion said. “Miss Redaway has never seen a mine.”
“Of course.” Santley glanced at his watch. “I was just about to close up. Will you be needing a key?”
“We will, thank you. No need for you to stay. We’ll not be long.”
Trevallion showed her the offices, explained a little about assaying, and when they emerged the sun was going down.
She turned on him suddenly. “Val? I want to go down!”
“In the mine? At this hour?”
“Well,” she said, “it won’t be any darker down there at night than in the day. Can’t we take a pair of those lamps?” She indicated a row of them hanging on a small rail near the assay office. “We wouldn’t be long.”
“Wait, come back in the daytime when somebody is around. One should never go into a mine unless someone else knows you’re there.”
“Oh, come on, Val! We’d only be a few minutes. I want to see what’s so strange about that Forty-Nine place.”
He hesitated. It was foolish. Yet he was curious, too. What was the mystery about Forty-Nine?
“Well—”
“Come on, Val! We’ll only be gone a few minutes! You’ve been down in this mine, haven’t you?”
“It’s been months. Will had me down to look it over just before he was dispossessed. No doubt there have been a lot of changes since then. It’s deeper, I know, and they’ve run some drifts. Let’s go back inside for a minute.”
He had noticed the layout of the mine-workings on Santley’s desk and he went back, bending over it. He had no trouble locating Forty-Nine.
He studied the situation with care, not liking it. Still, they would be down but a few minutes.
“You will get very dirty,” he warned, “it’s wet and muddy down there.”
“I’ll change at the hotel. I’ve been dirty before.” She laughed. “Come on, Val! Show me!”
“You’ll have to climb ladders,” he warned again.
“I’ve climbed mountains in the Alps,” she said, “and I’ve done a lot of rock climbing. You needn’t worry about me.”
“We won’t bother with the lamps,” Trevallion suggested. “They drip oil and can be dangerous. We’ll take candles. Three of them will last ten hours, but we’ll take twice that many, just for luck.” He hung his coat on a hook and took a miner’s jacket that hung nearby, dropping extra candles into the side pocket, and a spiked candleholder for fixing candles against a wall.
It was dark and still in the mine. Margrita was excited and interested but a little frightened, too. There was no sound but the drip of water, and an occasional rattle of falling rocks. They picked their way along the narrow track on which the ore-cars ran, and at a fork in the drift, Trevallion picked up a shovel.
He was thinking of the chart of the mine-workings he had seen in the office. They should be nearing Forty-Nine.
When he had taken a few more steps, he paused so suddenly that she bumped him from behind.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He stooped and picked up something from the floor.
“That’s odd. Santley said they weren’t working in Forty-Nine any more but this is a piece of Bickford fuse, used in blasting.”
“They could be working close by,” she suggested. “Let’s hurry. It’s awfully hot and I want to get back on top.”
He chuckled. “Whose idea was this, anyway? It should be right ahead, though.”
Forty-Nine, he recalled, was the beginning of a cross-cut between two tunnels, started to permit better circulation of air, something that must always be considered. Also, the crosscut enabled them to sample rock from a wide triangle that lay between two tunnels.
He paused at the opening, looking up the drift that lay before him. He gestured. “That’s a dead end. Or so the chart showed. They ran into some barren ground. It might be just a ‘horse’ but there’s no telling.”
“What’s a ‘horse’?”
“The Comstock Lode lies in a fissure or crack that developed millions of years ago. Roughly, it’s some four miles long, and after the crack occurred, gases bubbled up from below. There are hot springs all over this area, and they deposited the gold and silver. Occasionally great chunks of country rock would fall off into the crack, so you’d have what the miners call a horse—a stretch of barren rock dividing several mineralized areas.
“When you come upon such a place underground you have a decision. You must decide whether to continue working, hoping for mineral on the other side, or to stop where you are, taking it for granted the barren ground will continue.”
He led the way into Forty-Nine, pausing occasionally to look around. “We’re wasting our time,” he said, after a bit. “There’s nothing here.”
“Then why—”
“Just what he said. It was bad ground and no use working it. Hesketh wasn’t telling an untruth. He was being honest for once.”
He gestured toward the ground at his feet. All along the wall there was a thick black and smooth stretch of mud at the foot of the wall, projecting almost to the track. “It’s creep. At least, that’s what some of us call it.
“Sometimes there’s layers of mud or earth between rock strata. Naturally, there’s great pressure on it, and when you run a tunnel into it, the pressure squeezes it into the open space.”
“Then what?”
He shrugged. “It just keeps squeezing. The mud keeps oozing, and in areas like that you usually have one or two men busy all the time cutting it out with shovels and carrying it away. Or else in time it would fill the tunnel.”
“You mean it would
fill all this space?”
“Uh-huh. There’s some water in it, of course. It just keeps creeping unless cut out and carried away. I have seen it in only one place other than the Comstock, and that was an old mine in Oregon I was asked to check out. Mud had crept in, filling some of the old workings, even broke timbers and pushed them over.”
“Can nothing stop it?”
“Nothing, until it fills all the available space.”
She shuddered. Turning quickly, she said, “Let’s get out of here!”
They had taken no more than two steps when there was a dull thud somewhere ahead of them and a sudden puff of pushed air that put out their candles.
Grita clutched his arm. “Val? Val? What is it?”
She could smell dust, and something else, a vague smell, totally unfamiliar.
“There has been an explosion, Grita,” Trevallion said. “Stand perfectly still until I light up.”
“That smell, what is it?”
“Powder smoke,” he said. “I think we’re in trouble, Grita.”
She could feel her heart pounding. She was afraid, deathly afraid.
He fumbled for a match, struck it, and lighted his candle, then hers. “Let’s see how bad it is,” he said. He led the way back along the track to the opening of the cross-cut. Only there was no opening. Where the opening into the tunnel had been, there was a pile of muck, broken rock, and splintered timbers.
He lifted his candle. The charge had been so placed as to block both the cross-cut and the dead-end tunnel. He studied it thoughtfully, trying to recall the formation he had glanced at as he entered the tunnel. How much had been shot down? How far were they from the other side?
Too far, probably too far.
“Grita,” he said, “put out your candle. We’ll need the air.”
“Are we trapped, Val?” She fought back the fear in her voice.
“Yes, we are. And that was the whole idea, Grita. That must have been the reason for the note. It was deliberately written to arouse our curiosity, to get us in here.”
“But they’ll find us, Val! They’ll find us when they come to work tomorrow!”
Comstock Lode Page 39