It had taken them only minutes to make an opening large enough to get him out. Once in the open air he did not want to move, he just wanted to breathe, to breathe long and deeply.
Grita had come through it even better than he. Of course, she had not worked as hard or as much. She was at the hotel now, with Mary.
He lay with his eyes closed, tired in every muscle, but relaxed, thinking.
This had been a definite attempt to kill them both. The time had been well-chosen, the holes drilled, the charges planted, knowing they would inspect the mine. And that note, warning them not to enter Forty-Nine. As had been guessed, that would be all that was needed to arouse their curiosity.
In that loose formation where slabs were flaking off constantly, only a small charge or two was needed. Finding the pick, left by some miner’s carelessness, had saved them.
Who?
He sat up suddenly. There in the tunnel, toward the end, every swing of the pick was a major effort, when he swung, struck home, slowly recovered, and swung again. He was stupid with fatigue, lack of oxygen, and exhaustion of spirit, and still something within him drove him on to try, and try again. How long he had stayed there at the face he did not know. Again and again he struck with the pick, sometimes with seemingly no effect, sometimes to see whole flakes of rock come away.
During all that time something kept nagging at his awareness, something striving for acknowledgment, for recognition. His brain was a vast, empty void, it seemed, where only the one thought remained, to keep trying. Yet from somewhere that nagging something, a shadowy face, a thin, pale face with strange blue eyes and a voice saying, “May I see that?”
See what? There had been a man in a carefully tailored suit, a man looking for Margrita Redaway, a man who—
The same man. They were one and the same. The man in the street who wanted to see the gold doubloon and the man he had discovered in Margrita’s hotel room were the same man.
He shook his head to clear it. Now wait a minute. Think it through. If the faces were the same, what of that other face, half-seen in the dark by the glow of a burned-down campfire? The face of a man who stood over Margrita’s father and shot him dead?
The same man.
Trevallion swung his feet to the floor and reached for his socks. Slowly, carefully, he dressed, and as he dressed he put it all together.
The several attempts to kill him, at least one by Waggoner. And Waggoner had been one of them. Waggoner had money. Where did he get it? He never worked, but he was always supplied with cash. The obvious answer was that somebody who had money was giving it to him to keep him around where he could be used.
Trevallion finished dressing and reached for his gun-belt.
It was not there.
Then he remembered. He had removed it when working in the mine. Unless somebody had brought it out, it was still there.
He rummaged around in his duffle bag and came up with another gun, the one that he had found in the leaves after the man fled who had killed his father. On the butt was carved a name: A.X. Elder.
He thrust the gun down in his waistband and went out, closing the door carefully behind him.
Waggoner and the other man, the instigator of it all, Albert Hesketh. It had to be. It fitted.
* * *
—
An hour earlier, across town, Jacob Teale heard the story of the rescue of Trevallion and Margrita from the Solomon.
They must have gone to the Solomon, of course! They had been going there when she suggested that he have something to eat, that they’d be right back. He could have been the only person who knew they were going to the mine. Right after that he had been attacked by two strangers, and without warning.
There were two other beds in the room, but both were empty. Jacob Teale sat up carefully and swung his feet to the floor. His clothes were hung very neatly over a chair and he dressed himself, praying neither the nurse nor the doctor would come in before he got out.
He belted on his gun, checked the loads, then took up his rifle.
By the time he reached the International, his knees were buckling. He got through the door and crossed the room to the nearest table, where he sat down quickly.
A waiter came over to him. “Sir? Your rifle, sir? We don’t permit them in this room.”
Teale’s eyes held the faintest flicker of a smile. “I won’t keep it here long. Can you get me a drink?”
“Whiskey, sir?”
“Rum, I think. Some of that Haitian rum. Always wanted to try it and never have. When I was a boy I used to hear a lot about rum.”
“Yes, sir. Just a minute, sir.”
Teale leaned back and closed his eyes. Weak, he was weaker than a cat. Thank God, they had that elevator. It had never seemed of much account before. He had disdained it. In fact, he had never ridden an elevator in his life.
He heard the waiter coming and looked around. “I’m going to change my order.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You know how to make a Kill Devil?”
“A what, sir?”
A black man who was setting the next table turned around. “I know how to make one. Let me make it for the gentleman.”
Jacob Teale looked up. “Two parts light rum, one part brandy, a bit of honey, and just a pinch of ginger. Is that the way you make it?”
“Yes, sir. Sometimes there’s a discussion about how much ginger, sir.”
“Just a pinch, no more.”
As the black man left, the waiter said, “Your favorite drink, sir?”
“No.” He spoke carefully, hitching himself a little higher in his chair and feeling a sharp stab of pain. “I never had one in my life. An old man, I worked for him long ago in Louisiana, he drank Kill Devils when I was a boy. Always was wishful to try one.”
He sat very still, holding himself tight against the pain. When the black man came with the Kill Devil he looked at Teale, then looked again, more sharply. “Are you all right, sir? Would you like me to call a doctor?”
Teale smiled. “I’ve had one,” he said.
The Kill Devil tasted good. He tried another sip. He watched the black man setting another table and he sipped his drink carefully.
“Have you seen Mr. Hesketh this morning?”
“He was in for breakfast, sir. I have not seen him since then.” He looked at him again. “Aren’t you the gentleman who got shot outside a few days ago?”
“I am afraid I am.”
He closed his eyes, resting them. His head ached with a dull, heavy ache, and his mouth tasted bad. Or had until he drank the Kill Devil.
He finished his drink and seeing the elevator come down he crossed, got aboard, and went up to the floor where Albert Hesketh had his room. He walked down the hall, rapping on the door. There was no response.
With his bowie knife he forced the bolt back, entered the room, and closed the door again. Then he crossed the room and sat down in a dark corner.
He was tired. He was very, very tired.
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, his rifle across his knees.
* * *
—
When Mary opened the door, Trevallion was there. “How is she?”
“She’s been asking the same question about you. Come in.”
She closed the door behind him, and he heard Grita call out, “Who is it, Mary?”
She came out and, seeing him, crossed the room, her hands outstretched. “Val! You look wonderful!”
“I don’t believe that. Not the way I feel. My mother used to say, when somebody looked very bad, that he ‘looked like he’d been dragged through a knothole’ and that’s the way I feel.”
“That awful place. I’ll never go in a mine again.”
“Grita? It was intended to kill us, you know.”
“
I know.”
“And it was Hesketh. Grita, I know him now. It all began to come to me down there in the Forty-Nine. He was the man who killed your father back there in Missouri.”
“Are you sure, Val? I’ve always had a feeling I’d seen him before.”
“Be careful, Grita. Don’t go out anywhere without Mary and Manfred. Four eyes are better than two, and six even better. This isn’t over.”
He glanced at her. “Do you remember Waggoner? The man who made trouble for you up in Six Mile? He was one of them, too.”
“I know he was. He told me. There was some way he said we looked at him, my mother and I, that made him hate us. I’m sure it’s all imaginary, because we never looked at anybody except in passing. He’s a brute.”
“And he’s still around. There’s another man, too. A good-looking blond man. I don’t know him but he knows me, I think.”
“I wish it was all over.”
“Be careful.”
She was so very lovely. He stood, wanting suddenly to reach out and take hold of her, but he did nothing of the kind. “We will never have peace until they are gone,” he said, “and all these years I’ve known this day would come.”
“Be careful yourself, Val, and come back when you can. In fact,” she added, “I’ll be at the theater tonight. Why don’t you come by for me when the show’s over?”
“Depend on it. I’ll be there.”
He went down into the street, glancing into the dining room as he went out. He saw no one. He paused a moment surveying the street with a quick glance. Nobody. He went down the street to the bakery.
Melissa got up when he came in. “Trevallion! Are you all right?”
He shrugged. “Why not? It was just like doing two weeks work in two days, that’s all. Jim been around?”
“He’s around, somewhere. He’s worried about you.”
Trevallion ordered coffee and sat watching the street. It was a warm, busy day. Ore wagons went by, men on foot and horseback. Two beautifully dressed women passed on the opposite side of the street accompanied by a man in a dove-gray suit.
The town was changing. He could feel it. He looked over at Melissa. “The wild old days are gone,” he said. “It will not be the same again.”
“I know.” Her tone was almost regretful. “Some of the boys are heading for Pioche and some for the Reese River diggings.”
“They can have them. No more wild frontier towns for me. I’m settling down.”
“With her?”
He glanced at her. “You women, always romantic. What makes you think she’d have me?”
“She will. She’s no fool.”
He waited, thinking. Yes, that was the way it should be, and deep inside him he had known it ever since that long ago time when he had held a trembling, frightened little girl in his arms, trying not to be frightened himself because he had to help her be brave. So much had happened, and so much had still to happen.
“Somebody tried to kill us, you know,” he said. “That somebody is still here. But it isn’t only him. There are three of them.”
“I’ve heard the talk. I heard it when they went up to the Solomon the other night. There are fifty men in this town you’ve helped out of scrapes, men like Jim Ledbetter whom you found in the snow, like Dane Clyde whom you staked to a new start. They’d hang anybody who attacked you.”
He glanced at her. “That isn’t the way it is, Melissa. Every man blazes his own trail, saddles his own broncs. They can pick up the pieces, but what has to be done, I’ll do, and they know it.”
“Is—is that big man one of them? The man with the scar on his face?”
“He’s one. There’s a blond man, too.”
“I know him. He was in here the other day. They call him the Ax, the Clean-Cutter.”
He touched his waistband. “I know. I’ve got his gun right here. I’m going to give it back to him.”
* * *
—
Waggoner locked his cabin door, crossed the street, and went down an alley between buildings. In the space behind one, he went into a stable where he rented a stall. He dumped some grain into a bin and wiped down his horse’s back with a couple of quick strokes to smooth down the hair. Then he swung his saddle into place and tightened the cinch.
“Eat up, horse,” he said, low-voiced, “you got a ways to go before daylight.”
He stepped out of the stall; taking out his six-shooter, he spun the cylinder. Then he reholstered the gun and went to the door. From where he stood, although it was some distance off, he could see the back door of the hotel. For a few minutes he watched it, then shook his head.
He took out a big silver watch and looked at it, then slid it back into his pocket. Closing the door after him, he went down the alley and crossed the street. He waited for a minute, watching the theater. Nobody was around, but a janitor who was sweeping up. The door stood open.
At this time every day the janitor crossed the street for a beer. Waggoner waited patiently, watching. When the man went into the saloon he crossed and entered the darkened theater and went backstage to the dressing rooms. He found the room used by Margrita Redaway and entered. There was a clothes closet in the back. He entered, pulled a small box back into the room, and sat down.
He had been planning this for some time. She always came early and was usually dressed before the others even arrived. He had watched her, watched the theater, learned the habits of all the others. Now he would wait, and when she came—
First the mother, now her.
He settled back in the darkness. He had over an hour to wait.
He could afford to wait. He had waited years for this moment.
CHAPTER 59
Trevallion stepped out on the street, removed his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. He stood for a moment, thinking, the wind stirring his hair. Bill Stewart had been asking for him. He must see him.
His eyes scanned the street, missing nothing. He put his hat on and hitched his belt a little, easing the position of the gun. He had reloaded it, just to be sure.
It was all going to end here, today. He knew that, smiling a little wryly when he considered that he, too, might end right here. They had killed his mother and his father, destroying their dream of a new home in a new land. Would they make it a clean sweep and get him, too?
Albert Hesketh worried him most of all. Hesketh would never draw a gun and so give him a chance to shoot him. Nor was there anything he could prove. Supposition, yes. He knew that Virginia City would know him guilty, but there was nothing he could prove.
He had no doubts about Waggoner or the Ax. They were men who used guns, strong men, confident men, each dangerous, each very sure of himself, and with reason.
He no longer wished to kill anyone, yet he had no choice. They had tried and would continue trying to kill him. Moreover, they had tried to kill Grita. He was a fool to stand so long in one place and started up the street.
Virginia City was going about its business, mining ore, mining money from the pockets of stockholders, freighting ore to the mills. The stamp-mills were pounding, people were coming and going, all oblivious of what was about to happen. Generally speaking, it was none of their business, but after it happened it would be, for a few days, a topic of conversation. Then some other interest would develop and it would become history, referred to occasionally as “Do you remember—?”
Trevallion knew it all. He had been there before. Suddenly a rider pulled up beside him. It was Ramos Kitt.
“Heard you were in trouble. I come arunnin’ but you were already out.”
“Thanks, anyway.”
“Trev? Why are you my friend? You are, you know. It was on your advice that I started guarding gold. When I tried for a job, I found you’d recommended me. You knew I’d been an outlaw. Why?”
Trevallion was
embarrassed. He shrugged. “I just knew you were too good a man to go to waste. A man does a lot of things when he’s a kid he wouldn’t do a few years later. So I put in a word here and there. It wasn’t anything.”
“You’re in trouble, Trev. I’m good with a gun.”
“You’re damned good, but you just stay with what you’re doing. A man’s success he can share with others, his troubles are his own. I’ve got it to do, Ramos. You know that better than anyone.”
Ramos Kitt turned his horse, then stopped. “It’s the Ax, you know. The Clean-Cutter. He’s fast, Trev, he’s very fast. Don’t try to match him, because nobody can. Take one if you must, but kill him. You may only get one, so put it where it matters.”
He paused again. “His big fault—I’ve seen it—he wants to be fast. Prides himself on it. He will, most of all, want to beat you. He’s so anxious to be fast that sometimes he misses that first shot. It’s something to remember.
“And watch yourself on the street, like this here. If he can, he’ll do it where it can be seen. He’s awfully good, maybe the best ever, but he’s a show-off, too.”
“Thanks, Ramos. I’ll remember.”
Kitt rode on, and Trevallion turned the thought on the spit of his mind. He did not consider himself a gunfighter. He had never wanted the name or prided himself on the things he had done. A man doesn’t sleep well on the bodies of the dead.
He wanted no part of the Ax. The man who concerned him now was Waggoner. Waggoner was a sullen brute, and he had made a vicious promise to Grita. Crossing the street, he took a passage between two buildings that let him out on a vacant lot. He skirted some old lumber and a pile of rusted tin cans and walked up toward Waggoner’s cabin. There was no movement, no sign of life. His rapping on the door brought no response. He peered in the window, and the room was empty.
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