Comstock Lode

by Louis L'Amour

  From this place and that they came, gamblers, bartenders, teamsters, miners, and superintendents of mines.

  “He’s always been game,” one man said. “I was there when he brought the gold back from the Modoc country,” another added. “He was always there when anybody else was in trouble,” somebody else said.

  Waggoner saw the line. He stepped to the door of his cabin and shaded his eyes. What the hell was going on?

  Several dance-hall girls, the madame from a popular parlor house. Soon there were fifty, then a hundred, and a hundred and fifty.

  Somebody ran past. “Hey!” Waggoner called. “What’s going on?”

  “Trevallion’s trapped in the Solomon! We’re goin’ to get him out!”

  Waggoner started to speak, glanced at the long and growing line, then he stepped back inside and closed the door.

  For a long moment he stood inside the door without moving. Somewhere a little warning bell was ringing. Get out! Get out fast!

  He shook his head, irritably. Why? He had left nothing to indicate his presence, nothing at all. Everything he had taken into the mine had been left there, and none of it belonged to him. How could he be connected with it? And what was all the fuss about, anyway? Who was Trevallion? And who was she, that actress? That kid from back in Missouri grown up?

  He had left his horse down at the stable to be shod. If he went after his horse now everybody would wonder why he was leaving town at this hour.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. He was being foolish. The thing needed now was calmness. If the falling rock had not buried them, they would have suffocated by now. They were dead. Nobody would ever know.

  Yet, any mining man would know somebody had placed those shots, and not for any mining purpose. Questions would be asked, of everyone. He thought nobody had seen him go up there, but how did he know? There was always somebody throwing slops from a door, shaving close to a window—who knew?

  He passed a hand over his brow and brought it away dripping. What was the matter with him? What was he afraid of? Yet he knew what it was. The last time he had seen a bunch of men together like that it was a lynch mob, but before they reached his place he was gone.

  He was all right. Nobody knew anything, except the man who sent him here.

  Nobody but him.

  But why was the Clean-Cutter in town? Waggoner had never liked the Ax. Too cocky and too sure of himself. He never saw the day he could stand up to Waggoner. At least, so Waggoner told himself.

  But why was he here? There had to be money in it or he would not have come. Whose money? For what job? And who would have known how to reach the Ax?

  Probably a number of people, but one man certainly. The same man who had reached Waggoner. But why the Ax? What could the Ax do that he, Waggoner, could not?

  There was one thing. And Waggoner was not a trusting man.

  CHAPTER 57

  The guard stepped into the path as Ledbetter, Tapley, Manfred, and Langford Peel reached him.

  “Sorry, boys. Nobody visits the Solomon.”

  “How long have you been on guard?” Ledbetter asked.

  “Yesterday afternoon sometime. I been relieved once, then I come back.”

  “Anybody go up there?”

  “Nobody. Orders were to let nobody go by unless with an order from Miss Redaway.”

  “You haven’t seen her? Or Trevallion?”

  “Nope. Nobody.” He paused. “Well, come to think of it I thought I saw somebody over on the back side, but when I walked around there was nobody there. On a job like this you get to seein’ shadows.”

  “We’ve reason to believe Miss Redaway and Trevallion may be trapped up there. We’re going up.”

  “Now, see here!” The guard was sweating. “You just can’t—”

  “You want to stop me, Tom?” Peel asked mildly. “Or,” he turned and gestured, “all those?”

  Tom shook his head. “No, and if Trevallion’s down in that hole, I want to help.”

  “We don’t know he’s there,” Tapley said, “although I don’t know where else they’d be.”

  Ledbetter turned to Manfred. “You’ve worked with her. Would she go down in a mine?”

  “She’d go any place she chose to go,” Manfred replied. “That’s a woman knows her mind.”

  Ledbetter tried the door of the office. “This is open. Somebody’s been here.”

  “They wouldn’t walk off and leave the office open. Not even with guards about.”

  Ledbetter pushed open the door and went in. Manfred followed as Tapley walked toward the hoisting-engine house.

  Suddenly Peel called out. “Boys? He’s here all right. Here’s his coat!”

  Ledbetter started for the door but Manfred’s voice arrested him. “Jim? Look at this!”

  Manfred had the cross-section of the cross-cut before him. “This drawer was open and this had been taken out. At least, it was on the table. And see here—” He pushed Hesketh’s message to Santley toward him.

  “Forty-Nine. He says don’t go near Forty-Nine and here’s the chart, the layout, as if somebody had been studying it.”

  “All right, it’s something. Let’s go.”

  Outside Ledbetter recognized the coat. “That’s surely his.”

  They were all gathering now. Ledbetter looked around. “Anybody here who ever worked in the Solomon?”

  “I did.” A big red-haired miner in damp digging clothes pushed to the front.

  “What’s wrong with Forty-Nine?” Ledbetter asked.

  Red shrugged. “Nothing more than anywhere else. There’s a lot of dangerous ground on the Comstock. Everybody knows that, but it’s no worse than a lot else.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Ledbetter paused. “Better only six of us go down so we don’t clutter everything up.” He looked around at the assembled faces. “Please stand by. We may need you.

  “Peel? Will you stay up here and keep an eye on things? I don’t want anybody in that office. You, too, Manfred.

  “Red, I’ll take you and Tap, and Red, you pick out three good miners to come with us.”

  “Build a fire,” somebody suggested. “If they find them they’ll be cold when they hit the night air. Comin’ out of one of those hot mines is an invitation to pneumonia.”

  “I’ll get some blankets,” somebody said, and turning, ran off into the night.

  With lighted candles the six disappeared into the opening. Sticks were broken, a fire started.

  Red led the way into the mine. “Been a few months,” he spoke over his shoulder. “I quit. Didn’t like the way they operated.”

  “Did you know Hesketh?” Ledbetter asked.

  “Never saw him but once or twice. He stayed in that office of his. But he sure knew the mine. Used to come down and prowl around after the last shift went home. Sometimes him or somebody did some work around, cleanin’ up, usually. I never knew why, but we’d see the signs when we come on shift at the change.”

  He gestured with a hand. “Forty-Nine’s up this way.” For several minutes they walked in silence, then suddenly the tunnel was closed by a slanting wall of muck.

  Red held his candle high. “Well, I’ll be damned! Whole damn roof fell in!”

  “It didn’t fall, Red. It was blasted. Look here,” he held up a slab of rock, putting his finger on a small half-moon of a hole, “drilled, an’ see? That band of quartz ran right over the top.” He turned it. “Some good values in it, too.”

  “Maybe,” Red agreed reluctantly, “just maybe. But what would a man do that for?”

  They looked at each other. Finally Red said, “They had trouble with this area. She was always flakin’ off. I was pushin’ a car in here one time, and a slab that must’ve weighed three hundred pounds fell. Hit the front end of the car. I was all bent over pushin’. If I’d of
been one step further, it would have wiped me out.”

  “If they’re back there,” another miner said, “they’ve had it.”

  “How far from here to that cross-cut? To Forty-Nine?” Ledbetter asked.

  “Hundred and fifty feet. Maybe more. Been awhile since I worked in here.”

  “This is fresh,” Red said. “I can still smell powder smoke.” He gestured with his candle. “Let’s go back to the other branch. We got to try it.”

  “No need, Red.” The miner speaking was a stocky, deep-chested man they called Blaine. “That cross-cut opened up this drift, and they hadn’t broken through on the other end yet. This is the only way into Forty-Nine and nobody has gone this way.”

  “Unless this was done after they went in,” Ledbetter said. “Somebody has tried several times to kill Trevallion. Took some shots at him.”

  “If they are back of that,” Blaine gestured back toward the cave-in that stopped them, “they aren’t going to get out in a hurry. I know that roof, and if any of it went, fifty or sixty feet went. When we start to muck it out, more is going to come down. It’s bad ground, believe me.”

  At the main tunnel Ledbetter paused, turning to shine the light of his candle up the other side of the Y. “You don’t think we should look up this way?”

  “No use,” Blaine said. “That cross-cut hadn’t come through. We’d do a damned sight better to start getting muck out and gettin’ some timber ready. That tunnel will have to be shored up.”

  Red hesitated, then said, “What the hell, Jim? Come on.”

  Two of the miners stopped. “You have a look. We’ll go topside and start things rollin’. We’re in for a lot of digging.”

  Red led the way, commenting, “Be hell if we dug all the way back there and he showed up all hale an’ hearty.”

  “He won’t,” Ledbetter said, “I know him. He never left anything hanging out, and never left a door unlocked. He’s a careful man.”

  Their boots splashed in the pools of water between the ties. This tunnel was wetter than the other, and water dripped from the roof. It was dark and wet and very hot. Jim Ledbetter thanked all his gods that he had never taken up mining. How they stood it he could not guess.

  “Ain’t far now,” Red said. “They put a few rounds in from here just to mark the spot.” He paused suddenly. “Say one round. There it is, only three feet or so from this side.”

  They stood side by side looking at the beginning of what was to be the cross-cut, like a narrow, arched doorway in the rock.

  Jim mopped the sweat from his face. “Hell!” He was exasperated and disappointed. “I was hoping maybe there was an opening all the way through.”

  In silence they stood, listening to the slow drip of water. It was utterly black where no candlelight shone, and water dripped everywhere. In most of the mines they had pumps going all the time to keep water out of the tunnels. He wanted to get out, to get away. To get back under the stars.

  “Red, I don’t see how you do it. You must have more guts than a country mule.”

  “Mined all my born days,” Red said. “I’ve been underground more than I’ve been on top. My wife’s always after me to quit, but what could I do? I don’t know anything else.”

  He turned his head and the light from the candle on his cap shone for an instant into the arch of the cross-cut. “I—”

  “Red.” Jim’s voice was choked. “For God’s sake, Red, look at that!”

  They turned their candles.

  A hand—a white, slim hand, was sticking out of what appeared to be a solid rock wall!

  CHAPTER 58

  Albert Hesketh straightened his gray silk cravat, pulled his vest down, and regarded himself in the mirror with satisfaction. The part in his hair was absolutely straight, every hair in place, his appearance impeccable.

  Deliberately, he opened the door and walked down the hall to the elevator. All things were moving to his satisfaction. He was not only pleased with himself, but with the future which opened before him.

  He would control the Solomon. By the time he lost control, if he ever did, he would have the mine thoroughly gutted.

  Moreover, he had other properties awaiting development. A lot of men were going to become rich on the Comstock, and he would be one of them. George Hearst, they were saying, had already made over a million. It was probably true. Hearst was a shrewd man, and he bought well and worked hard. He had known what he was doing every step of the way.

  And so had he. Hesketh permitted himself a complacent smile. His way might be different, but his way had been successful, too.

  The dining room was almost empty when he took his usual seat. This was surprising, for this was a night when it began to fill up rather early. It was the custom for those who could afford it to dine at the International on Sunday evening.

  The waiter came to take his order, then ventured a comment. “I didn’t expect you this evening, sir. I thought you would be up at the Solomon.”

  Hesketh glanced up. “The Solomon? Why?”

  “Well, it is your mine, and everybody is up there, sir. The word is that Mr. Trevallion and Miss Redaway are trapped up there.”

  Something cold seemed to turn over in the pit of his stomach. So soon? They might even be still alive. No, not hardly. “Oh? I hadn’t heard.” He paused a moment, knowing what he said would be repeated. “There’s been some litigation, you know. Temporarily, at least, I’ve been denied access.

  “Trapped, you say? How could that be? I understood the mine was closed and there were guards.”

  “I don’t know, sir. The whole town’s up there. They’re very popular people, you know, so everyone who is free has gone up there.”

  The waiter went off to fill his order and no doubt to spread the word that Albert Hesketh was at dinner, “as usual.”

  His paper lay unopened beside his plate. Slowly he took the napkin from its ring and placed it in his lap.

  Too soon. Altogether, too soon. He had not expected them to be found until tomorrow. The incoming shift would find the roof collapsed on Monday morning, and then there should have been an investigation. What had gone wrong?

  He frowned, suddenly furious. He felt the burst of rage and frustration within him. To be balked, to be thwarted in any way sent him into a fury, but outwardly, he appeared as always, cold, without expression, the master of his destiny. It was so he thought of himself.

  He ordered a glass of wine, sipped it slowly. All depended now on what was discovered. Nothing could lead to him, of course. Had he not expressly warned that they not enter Forty-Nine? That had been a nice touch. Rethinking it, he was pleased with himself. Even if they were alive, a possibility he doubted, other steps could be and would be taken.

  He must think, must plan. He thought of Waggoner, then dismissed him. No, save him for later. He wanted to save Waggoner for Margrita Redaway. It would serve her right. It was Waggoner, Hesketh believed, who had precipitated the rape and murder back there in Missouri. This was a job for the Ax.

  Trevallion was reputed to be good with a gun, but the Ax was better, better than Langford Peel or any of them.

  He was having his dessert when the door burst open and a man came in. “They found them! They’re alive! They’re all right, and they’re coming down the hill right now! They’re coming here!”

  There was a flurry of excited questions, and from the talk Hesketh gleaned a word here and there.

  “…almost through. Trevallion was cutting his way out with a pick. He’d gotten a hole through so’s he could get air, then he passed out.

  “That’s the way I heard it. Had one hell of a time, I guess. Been trapped in there for hours.”

  “Done apurpose,” somebody was saying, “shot down after they went in.”

  “Who? Ain’t hard to figure out. Who stood to gain? Who could get into the Solom
on?”

  His back was to the speaker and he knew there were people between them. Obviously, the man did not know he was present, or if he did know, did not care.

  Hesketh placed his napkin beside his plate and arose very carefully and without turning around went quickly from the room. He did not wait for the elevator but went up the stairs, his heart pounding.

  Keep out of sight—out of sight, out of mind. There’d be a flurry of excitement over this, but some other sensation would take it from their minds. In a few days it would be an old story.

  How had they discovered the roof had been blasted? He had intended it to look like a natural cave-in, which happened often enough to warrant no comment. Somehow, Waggoner had botched the job. Hesketh swore, and he was not a man given to swearing. He swore slowly and with emphasis. Waggoner was a fool.

  The Ax, the Ax was the man he needed.

  He’d been only a boy then, a lean, slender boy of sixteen but with a thin edge of viciousness showing, and grown men stepped carefully around him. There had been a man who spoke contemptuously of him back in Missouri, and the Ax had cut him open. Just turned and slashed him across the belly with an Arkansas toothpick.

  He was quick as a cat, utterly without mercy, and on tiptoe to resent any injury or slight.

  Over the years that had remained the same. The difference was that he had become a dandy. He dressed carefully now, made every effort to appear the gentleman, and he had become efficient with both pistol and rifle. He combed his curly hair carefully and kept his hands and nails as clean as a girl’s.

  Hesketh nodded slowly. He must have the Ax. But how to reach him? How to pay him? The Ax was here. He was not only in town, he was in this very hotel.

  * * *

  —

  Trevallion lay on his back in bed, his eyes closed. Once out in the open air he had recovered rapidly. Now he was simply tired.

  He relived again that moment when his pick broke through and he felt the rush of air against his face. He had managed a deep breath, then he had enlarged the hole, and lifting Grita with his last strength he held her at the small opening where she could inhale deeply. He had fallen to his knees then, only half-conscious. He remembered a murmur of voices from somewhere, but he could not rise. It might be delirium.