Comstock Lode

by Louis L'Amour

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” Trevallion said. “Nobody will be working. And of course,” he could see it all clearly now, “Hesketh will dismiss the miners, saying we’d want to hire our own crew.”

  “What about Mr. Santley?” She was grasping at any chance, any possibility.

  “He lives near Genoa. He won’t be back before Monday at the earliest. If Hesketh doesn’t find some reason to keep him away even then.”

  He took her by the arms. “Grita, let’s face it. Nobody is going to come looking for us. Nobody will even ask questions. Not for a while.”

  “Then, then, this is all there is? We will die here?”

  His smile was grim. “Why no, Grita, it just means that we know where we stand. We just know nobody is going to come looking, so whatever is done we have to do ourselves.”

  He gestured. “Sit down over there and think some good thoughts for us. I’m going to work.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Melissa was sitting at her back table when Jim Ledbetter came in. “Hello, Jim! Come and sit down.”

  “Thanks.” He removed his hat and ran fingers through his hair, then walked back and sat down across the table from her. “Seen Trevallion?”

  “He hasn’t been in. Come to think of it, it’s been days. I think he’s in love, Jim.”

  “Might be it. I’m worried, though. I figured he’d be around as soon as he heard about the shootin’. How’s Teale? Have you heard?”

  “He’s in bad shape. I don’t see how he did it, but he killed both of them. They came in on him like the two sides of a triangle. One of them called out something and when he looked around, the other man shot him. Then they both opened fire. He killed one of them, fell on his side on the walk, then just raised up on his elbow and took careful aim and killed the other. Never seen anything like it.”

  “You saw it?”

  “I did. I saw it comin’ before Teale did, started to yell at him and was too late.”

  “Jim, I’ve got to warn Trevallion.”

  “Warn him? Of what?”

  “Jim, did you ever hear of the Clean-Cutter?”

  “The Ax? Sure. He killed a man up near the Oregon border when I was out there. What about him?”

  “He’s here. He’s in Virginia City.”

  “They all come here sooner or later, Melissa. This is where it’s happening.”

  “That’s not the point, Jim. I think he’s come after Trevallion. I saw him talking to Waggoner, the big man who was asking about Trevallion? The one Trevallion believes got his gold? They greeted each other like old friends.

  “They were in here, and I am almost sure I heard Trevallion’s name mentioned. They were talking about Rig and Les, whoever they are.”

  Ledbetter looked up sharply. “They’re the two that tried to kill Jacob Teale. They were batchin’ up there with Waggoner.”

  “The Ax knows Trevallion, Jim. Remember when we were first coming over the trail? It was back there at Dirty Mike’s or Strawberry, I’ve forgotten which, but there was a handsome blond man rode by and he gave Trevallion a good, long look. I’ve seen him since, in California. It was the Clean-Cutter, Jim. It was the Ax.”

  Jim Ledbetter drank his coffee. It was all surmise. Still, it could be. The Ax talking to Waggoner, and Waggoner batching with the two men who tried to kill Teale. It did all tie together.

  “I’ll take a look around, Melissa. If Trevallion comes in tell him what you’ve told me. Then no matter what he will be ready.”

  When Jim closed the door behind him, Melissa went to the window and watched him walk away up the street. Trevallion had said that Jim was in love with her. It seemed preposterous, but it might be. He was a good man, a straight, honest, decent man. Why was it she was only attracted to the others?

  Christian Tapley was just leaving the mine when Ledbetter arrived. “Trevallion? I ain’t seen him, Jim. Fact is, I was waitin’ to see him. Figured we might go see how Teale is doing.”

  “Nobody can see him. He’s in bad shape and needs rest. The way the Doc sounds, I don’t think he’s holding the right cards.”

  Ledbetter filled his pipe. “Tap, I don’t like it. What’s become of Trev? He hasn’t been down to the bakery and he ain’t here.”

  Tapley chuckled. “Led, give it some thought. It’s that play-actress woman. Don’t you know he’s sweet on her?”

  “Maybe. Come to think of it, I ain’t seen her, neither.”

  “See? What did I tell you?”

  “Well,” Ledbetter said, “I’m going to turn in. If you see him, tell him to be careful. The Ax is in town. Maybe because of him.”

  * * *

  —

  In the blackness of the cross-cut called Forty-Nine a candle flame flickered. The charge had been set off at the place where the cross-cut left the main tunnel, but the resulting rockfall had not closed off access to the tunnel. However, only a few yards further along the tunnel ended.

  The end of the cross-cut was only a few feet behind the rock where Grita Redaway sat. The air was still good. The candle burned with a steady flame.

  Trevallion was on his knees as high as he could get on the rockfall, tugging rock after rock from its place and letting them roll back behind him. The stuff was too large for a shovel to be of any use.

  His coat, vest, and shirt hung on the shovel which was standing against the wall.

  “Val? Can’t I help? I’m strong.”

  “Later. It’s going to be a long job.”

  Dust had fallen over his back and shoulders, sweat had run down his back and chest, leaving little trails in the dust. He chose another rock, worked it loose, and let it roll back behind him. It did not go far.

  “It’s ten o’clock, Val. Hadn’t you better rest?”

  “I’ll rest when we get out.”

  He worked steadily, carefully, with no unnecessary moves. He did not think, for there was no thinking to do now. He had known immediately what must be done and he went about it. He must open up a hole to let air come in before they exhausted what remained.

  They could expect no help. By now the guards Margrita had ordered would be on the job, and they would permit no one to approach the mine.

  Ten o’clock. He did not recall just what time it had been when they entered the mine, except that it had been late afternoon, say, four o’clock.

  Six hours, minus, say, the thirty minutes or so spent looking about before they became trapped. He came down off the muck pile and sat down on a rock.

  He was tired, but not as tired as he would be before this was over. Once before he had been briefly trapped in a mine cave-in, and some passing Indians had dug them out. He remembered how close the air had become, how the candle flames had burned lower, the struggle for breath as the air grew thinner.

  “You’re quite a woman,” he said, looking over at her. “No hysterics, no complaints, no crying. So I am going to lay it out for you.

  “There may have been more than one charge. Several small charges may have been placed at intervals along the drift. Remember that piece of fuse I found? Somebody was in a hurry and was careless.”

  “You believe it was done purposely?”

  “Of course. Nobody leaves unexploded charges in a mine if it can be prevented, and if there was a missed hole it could not go off spontaneously. Somebody was watching, somebody who came into the mine and spitted a short fuse behind us.”

  “If more than one charge was set off, there will be more piles like this?”

  “Yes. Or one continuous pile. More likely the first. In such a narrow drift it does not take much of a charge to block passage, and if they had several charges, which could have been exploded almost simultaneously, there may be fifty or sixty yards of rock to get through.”

  “It seems a lot.” She was watching him. It was amazing how cool he was. She could almost
see his mind working, and she knew that when he talked to her he was posing the problem for himself, facing it, selecting eventualities. He had commented that she had not gone into hysterics. Well, he hadn’t either. She had never seen anyone so calm.

  “Too much. If they did that we’ll not make it without help, and there will be no help. In a way,” he added, “that makes it easier.”

  “Easier!”

  He smiled. “Of course. Then we don’t sit around waiting for something to happen. We know that if it is done, we will have to do it.”

  “Do you think Albert Hesketh did this?”

  “Who else?”

  “Why should he hate us so much?”

  Trevallion shrugged. “I doubt if he does. If I measure the man correctly, we are a nuisance he is eliminating. He removes us just as he might remove a boulder from a road or a spot from his coat.”

  “He bothers me. Sometimes I almost think I’ve seen him before somewhere.”

  “I think you did. I think you saw him on the streets back in Missouri.”

  “In Missouri! That’s preposterous!”

  “Maybe. It’s been worrying me, too. There was a man back there who saw my father had some gold—one of those thick, old-time gold pieces. A doubloon. He was very curious about it.”

  “So would I be.”

  “This was different. And somebody instigated those men to do what they did. They don’t even recall who it was, themselves.”

  He got up and went back to work. Steadily, methodically, he pulled the rocks loose and rolled them down. Sometimes he had to crawl back and clear them still further back. He did not look at what he had done, he did not consider the enormity of what remained to be done. He simply worked.

  At twelve o’clock he stopped again. “Get some sleep, Grita.” He used her first name without thinking of it. “Use my vest for a pillow.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need it.”

  “Use it,” he said, “I’ll work for a couple of hours longer.”

  “What do you think?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t look good.” He took up the candle and held it close, peering into the hole he had made. There were more rocks beyond. The candle flame did not flicker.

  “We’ve got some distance to go yet,” he said. “Get some rest. It will help later on.”

  She made a sort of bed near the face of the cross-cut, and strangely, she slept.

  He worked steadily, hollowing out a place no larger than necessary, just a crawl space, actually. Several times he stopped.

  When he rested he tried to visualize the layout of the mine as he had studied it in the office. There had been an old working, nothing very much, yet a place where some previous prospector had sunk a slanting shaft into the earth not very far from where they now were.

  But where?

  And the cross-cut? He mopped the sweat and went back to work.

  Work on the Comstock had never been easy. Several times miners had encountered hot springs deep underground and had to run to escape a flood of boiling water. The cross-cut was being dug to connect two drifts or tunnels that spread from the main tunnel in a Y formation. The cross-cut would connect the two arms of the Y, so it was unlikely there would be any danger from hot springs in that direction unless from overhead. Still, a man never knew. Mining on the Comstock had ever been tricky, and all a man could expect was the unexpected.

  He worked steadily. His muscles ached with weariness, sweat dripped into his eyes, and they stung from the salt. He found himself resting more and more often. Was he imagining it, or was the candle flame burning lower?

  He backed out of the hole again. He was in over fifteen feet and the roof above him seemed fairly solid. He mopped his face and chest with his shirt. Margrita was sleeping, and thank God for that.

  His watch lay on a flat rock where she had removed it from his vest before using it as a pillow. It was after two in the morning.

  The work had been painfully slow. Each rock he removed had to be pushed behind him, and as he worked deeper, the rocks had to be taken from his improvised tunnel.

  He sat down heavily, blinking the sweat from his eyes. He belonged nowhere and was accountable to no one, hence would not be missed for some time. Nor would Margrita be missed until play time tomorrow, for this was already Sunday. If the air was going bad now, as it seemed to be, how much longer could they last? Another twelve hours? It would not be enough, unless, but who would guess where they were?

  Teale!

  Of course, Teale would return to the hotel and when he found she was gone he would make inquiries. Or would he? Not for a while, at least. He would assume she was resting.

  Twice in the next two hours he had to detour around rocks too large to move. Whoever had placed the charges had been shooting down rock, not trying to break it for running through a mill or for mining purposes.

  It was nearly five o’clock when he was struggling with a rock when he heard one fall away ahead of him.

  He put out a testing hand.

  Emptiness!

  He backed out hurriedly, got the candle and crawled back, holding it out before him. Hope vanished in a cloud of despair.

  About fifteen feet of space, and then another wall of broken rock.

  He crawled slowly back to where Grita lay, and sat down.

  Another barricade of rock, and then perhaps still another.

  He felt empty and exhausted. Resting his arms on his knees he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

  He was tired…so very tired….

  CHAPTER 55

  Albert Hesketh awakened on Sunday morning with a sense of well-being. He shaved and dressed, thinking with satisfaction how well events had moved forward.

  True, Teale was still alive, although badly wounded, but he was out of action for some time. Rig and Les were gone, removing a complication that had annoyed him.

  Margrita Redaway’s guards were in place to prevent anyone from approaching the Solomon, and Margrita and Trevallion had been disposed of. Or he believed they had.

  Twice he had gone to her door and rapped. Once a maid had told him, “She’s not in, sir.” Then with a knowing little smile, “She went out with a young man. Right handsome he was, too!”

  “Ah, well,” he had smiled, “the less said the better, then. Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, of course, sir! I’d say nothing, nothing at all!”

  “Of course.” He put a small gold piece in her hand. “I know you’ll be discreet.”

  He dressed with his usual neatness and rode the elevator down for breakfast. Perhaps a dozen others were at breakfast, none of whom he knew. Salesmen, or mining men, in town to look over the prospects.

  Albert Hesketh folded his newspaper and placed it beside his plate. He was thinking, coolly and carefully, of what must now be done.

  He had cleared the decks of obstructions. From here on, it should be smooth sailing. As the largest surviving stockholder, he would have little trouble regaining possession of the Solomon. The tactics had already been established for skimming off the richest ore from the mine, but he would go further. He would file a claim on the Trevallion-Crockett claim adjoining the Solomon and use that to take out the best ore both from the new mine and the Solomon.

  He watched while his cup was refilled. He was safe. He had been nowhere near the Solomon.

  He took out his watch. Perhaps sixteen hours they had been down there now. If not killed in the explosion, they should by now be approaching their end. How long could they last? How much air was there, actually?

  What would happen next? No doubt by tomorrow somebody would begin inquiries for Margrita. He could suggest to somebody that they had eloped. Such stories had a way of traveling, and soon everyone would accept it as fact. When he resumed work in the Solomon, he would start with a different crew and he
would open new workings. Their bodies might never be found.

  Trevallion was a tough man. As the thought came, he put his cup down sharply. At a nearby table a man turned his head, glancing at him.

  Tough, but not tough enough. Yet, how long could a tough man last? How much air was there? Trevallion would certainly try to escape, which meant he would exhaust the air that much faster.

  Had they left any sign on top? Anything to indicate their presence down below? He shook his head. Not a chance. What could they leave? And after all, his letter to Santley was there, warning them against going into Forty-Nine. He smiled. That had been a nice touch.

  Albert Hesketh was pleased with himself. Despite all obstacles, he was in command. Will Crockett was gone, and now these two. Even the “tools” who might offer some kind of a clue were gone. Only Waggoner remained, the massive, stolid, uninterested Waggoner, and he knew nothing, and cared less.

  The drift should be closed. Even if someone discovered what had happened, and there was no way, it would take a week of hard work to open up that tunnel. Four separate charges, and the amount of damage done to the tunnel would be extreme. The drift had been run into brittle quartz and clay, dangerous stuff at any time, and the relatively small charges would bring about a collapse much more extensive than in another type of formation.

  He accepted a refill of his coffee cup and opened his newspaper. He had never liked loose ends. He was a man who preferred neatness. He wanted all the packages neatly tied and the ends tucked in. And he had done just that. Within a few hours, perhaps even now…

  Opening his paper, he glanced across the top of it, and somebody was looming over the table. Despite himself, he looked up.

  “Hello, Mr. Hesketh. Mind if I sit down?”

  “I am afraid,” Hesketh’s throat was tight, “I do not know you.”

  “I think you do. We were on the stage from San Francisco together, Mr. Hesketh. My name is Manfred. I am an actor in Miss Redaway’s company.”