Comstock Lode

by Louis L'Amour

  He peered again. Something about the room worried him. Some bachelors were notoriously untidy, others were as neat as any old maid, but this room was too neat. It looked like the room of a man who was leaving for some time, everything put away, even the coffeepot.

  He faced away from the cabin, then started down the hill. A woman, carefully nurturing a few flowers in her dooryard, straightened up. “You looking for him? I think he’s left, gone.”

  Trevallion removed his hat. “Thank you, ma’am. What makes you think so?”

  “He took his rifle and a blanket-roll and went down to where he keeps his horse.”

  “And where would that be?”

  She pointed. “He rents stall space from the same stable my husband uses. He’s riding a big roan now. Grains it a lot.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The stable door was closed but he went up to it, unlatched the door, and swung it open.

  There were three horses in the stable who rolled their eyes at him, showing the whites. One was a big roan, weighing twelve hundred pounds if an ounce. The horse was saddled, blanket-roll tied in place, rifle in the boot. So Mr. Waggoner was packed, saddled, and ready to go someplace—but something must be left undone.

  Grita…Waggoner was not so eager to kill as to demean, to crush her pride, to see her crawl. He had followed her up Six Mile Canyon, had cornered her there. Only Trevallion’s arrival had saved her then, or so she believed.

  Trevallion closed the stable door, putting the hasp in place. He headed for the International. There were a few people sitting in the dining room but he knew none of them. He went up to Grita’s room. There was no reply when he knocked.

  He swore softly. Now was when he missed Teale. Had Teale been with her he would not have worried. Now he was worried.

  Where was Waggoner?

  Trevallion returned to the street searching up one side and down the other. He stopped in all the saloons, and Waggoner was in none of them. He returned to the stable; the saddle horse was still there, waiting for its rider.

  When he came to the bakery Trevallion went inside. From there he could watch the street, the doors of some shops. Ledbetter was there, talking to Melissa. “Did you ever see Bill Stewart?” he asked. “I don’t know what he’s got in mind but he’s been talking to a few of the men whom he respects. He has something for which he needs our support.”

  “Not today,” Trevallion said, “any day but today.”

  Ledbetter glanced around at him. “Trouble?”

  Trevallion was watching the street. Trouble, of course, but his trouble. At the lift of a hand or a single word he could have help, but how would he feel if Ledbetter got killed? And there would be killing today. He could feel it.

  Virginia City was going about its business, mining, buying, selling, drinking, eating, smelting ore, planning lawsuits. The problem was his own, not Ledbetter’s, not Melissa’s, or even Virginia City’s.

  “I’ll handle it,” he said.

  He had scarcely touched the coffee when he lunged to his feet and went out the door fast. The theater, of course! What was the matter with him? Waggoner would be at the theater.

  It was still some time before the theater opened, but Trevallion remembered Margrita’s habit of arriving before everyone else. After all, it was her company and she wished to see everything was made ready. Unfortunately, if Waggoner had been watching her he would know that was his perfect opportunity to strike.

  Trevallion hurried toward the theater. Ledbetter stood up, staring after him. “Now what the hell?” he wondered.

  “Jim?” Melissa said. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

  He turned to look at her, wondering at the tone of her voice. “He said he could handle it. He knows I’m ready.” He backed up a step and sat down, looking again at Melissa. “You sounded worried there for a minute,” he commented mildly.

  “I was, Jim. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  He shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter much. There’s nobody who’d notice. A man like me, he doesn’t leave much space when he dies.”

  “I’d miss you, Jim.”

  Startled, he looked up. “You? Miss me?”

  “Very much, Jim. I’d miss you more than anything.”

  He looked at her again. “Well, I’ll be damned. You mean that, don’t you?”

  “With all my heart.” She paused. “I’ve been an awful fool, Jim. It took Trevallion to make me realize.”

  There was a long silence, then Jim Ledbetter said, “And he’s goin’ out there alone, against God knows what.”

  “He’s always been alone. Maybe he will always be alone.”

  “No,” Ledbetter said after a minute, “I don’t think so. He’s found his woman.”

  “I don’t know her, Jim. Is she all right for him?”

  “She is, I think. Maybe she’s the only woman alive who would be.”

  “Why, Jim? Why her?”

  “She’s been there,” Ledbetter said, “since they were tykes. It’s her, all right. It’s her because she’s the only person who ever really needed him. That’s the secret of it, Lissy, to be needed.”

  “But she has everything.”

  “No, Lissy. She’s an empty woman, and he’s that kind of man. Since they were youngsters, I think, there’s been a memory of something lost. Now they’ve found it.”

  * * *

  —

  The evening sun was leaving blood in the sky, the shadows were reaching out to reclaim what they had lost at daybreak, and the red faded to rose and pink. It was an hour and a half to show time when Grita unlocked the side door of the theater. The janitor was long since gone, but he had done well. She glanced around, making a quick inspection, walking down the aisles and checking under some of the seats. He was a good man, that janitor, despite the fact that he liked his little nip now and again.

  The house was already a sell-out. The people of Virginia City loved their theater, which amused her, for the life they were actually living was so much more exciting and dramatic than any play.

  She thought of Trevallion with sudden longing, remembering him as he had been when they were entombed, his calm acceptance of the situation and then the efforts to do something about it. No time wasted in recrimination. His strength had fed her strength.

  She walked down the aisle and crossed to the left, mounting three steps to pass through the curtain to the backstage area. She turned to rearrange the curtains a bit, and she caught a glimpse of something on the floor. She pushed the curtain back for more light. It was a tiny bit of horse manure and hay.

  That janitor! Just wait— She had let the curtain fall and had taken three steps toward her dressing room when she felt a stab of fear.

  She opened the door and stepped in, putting her coat over the back of a chair. Suppose somebody had come in afterward? But who?

  Somebody who had been in a stable. But none of her people had been riding today, that she knew. So if someone had been here, it was some outsider.

  Within the great barnlike theater all was deathly still. The only sounds discernible here were the pound of the stamps. No sounds of passing teams, no voices. It had to be that way, or outside sounds would drown what was being said onstage.

  She had to get out. She had to get out now. Somebody had been here, and might still be here.

  Leave the coat. Leave her purse. But her gun was in that purse!

  Nevertheless, leave it. If she showed any indication of leaving he would come at once.

  Come? From where? The closet. If he was here, he had to be in the closet. If she started to run in this dress and her high-heeled shoes he would overtake her in a half-dozen steps.

  There was a chair. It was flimsy, but if she could get it propped under the knob—But to do that she had to move deeper into the room, up close to the door it
self.

  She could, of course, just walk out of the room. But it was a long way to an outside door and she had locked it on entering. She could never do it. The chair under the knob, lock him in the dressing room and then go for help. But suppose there was nobody there? What of it? People might say she was seeing shadows, but what if they did?

  Pulling off a long glove, she stepped into the room, crossed to the closet door and taking the chair by the back, lifted it over and started to thrust it under the knob. And then the door burst outward and he was there—Waggoner.

  “Cute,” he said. “Pretty damn cute.” He was even larger than she had remembered. He smelled of stale sweat and unwashed clothing. “How’d you know I was here?”

  Fear was the last thing she must show. “Because you’re filthy,” she said quietly, “you left some horse manure back there. Nobody would be coming here right from the stables.”

  He chuckled. “Sly,” he said, “pretty durned sly!”

  The dressing room was small. No matter which way she turned he was within arm’s reach of her. She had put her hat on the table. If only she could reach one of the hatpins! But he was going to give her no chance, none at all.

  “Heard you lock the door,” he said, “mighty nice of you. Gives me more time. Not that we haven’t got aplenty.” His smile showed big yellow teeth. “I been watchin’ this place. Them other actors never come much more than thirty minutes afore curtain time. Thirty to forty. So I got you all to myself for nigh onto an hour.”

  “If I were you,” she replied coolly, “I would leave now, while you still can. The men in this town will hang you for what you’ve already done.”

  “They won’t hang me. I done pretty much what I wanted all my life.” He put his big hands on his hips, staring insolently. “I’m goin’ to do what I want with you, right here, right now.”

  Her derringer was in her purse, behind her on the table. If she turned her back on him…She dared not do that, nor to reach back. She must wait; maybe if he came toward her a step back would seem natural. If she could just get her hand on that purse.

  Suddenly, completely without warning, he slapped her. It was like being hit with a club, and it knocked her sprawling. Before she could move, he kicked her. She just barely managed to turn her hip to catch the force of the kick and protect her stomach. It was not playful, but brutally hard.

  Then he reached down and grabbed her by the shoulder. Long ago she had been taught a little about defending herself, and she knew better than to pull back. Instead, she caught his sleeve and jerked him toward her.

  The action was totally unexpected, and he fell, sprawling. Like a cat she was on her feet. She was angry now. She knew she could not outrun him, so she pushed the chair into him, and as he was struggling to get up from it, she grabbed for her purse.

  His flailing hand knocked it to the floor, and she kicked him in the face. He grabbed at her leg, but it slipped from his grasp. She grabbed wildly, for something, anything, with which to hit him. Her hand caught up a bowl of face cream and she smashed it on his head. He came up with a lunge and knocked her sprawling, her head ringing from the blow. He leaped to get at her, and she rolled over quickly and scrambled up.

  Maddened, he glared at her. “I’m goin’ to take pleasure,” he said, “in chokin’ the life out of you!”

  “You’re a cheap coward,” she replied coolly. “I doubt if out in the open you could whip a full grown woman.”

  He swung a huge fist, and in dodging she fell over the fallen chair. He started for her, and just then there was a pounding on the outside door.

  He stopped, and for a moment his eyes were wild, then they cooled down. “You call out,” he said, “and you’ll just get him killed, whoever it is.”

  Carefully, her eyes on him, she got to her feet. Her dress was torn, her hair in disarray, but she found she was surprisingly cool. Think! she told herself. There has got to be a way.

  “I am going out of here,” she told him, “don’t try to stop me.”

  “You make a move toward that door,” he replied, “and I’ll break both your legs before I do anything else. And then I’ll break your fingers.”

  He would do it, of course. She had no doubt of it. The banging at the door had ceased. Had he gone away, whoever it was? But who could it be, at this hour? Her purse lay on the floor. If she could only get that gun!

  An hour ago she would have been horrified at the thought of killing anyone, now she realized she wanted to kill him. She even hoped she could. This man was one of those who had attacked her mother.

  Suddenly she moved toward the door, but he was quicker. For such a big man he moved like a panther. He slapped her again, his hand open. His palms were large and thick, and he slapped her with utter contempt on his face.

  “Think you’re somethin’ special, do you? Well, I’ll show you—”

  “I wouldn’t.” The voice was low, from outside the dressing room.

  Waggoner turned like a cat, palming his gun as he turned, and Trevallion shot him twice.

  He fell back, catching himself on the edge of the dressing table with his left hand, his right still holding the pistol. Both bullets had hit him just three inches below his belt buckle.

  Trevallion held his pistol casually, almost carelessly, it seemed. “Grita,” he said, “you’d better step outside.”

  She moved behind him, took up her purse, and backed out of the door.

  At the door she stopped, turning to face them. Waggoner was staring at Trevallion. “You seen it,” he said hoarsely. “You saw all that, back there in Missouri?”

  “We were back at the edge of the brush, Grita and me. I was holding her so she wouldn’t cry out.”

  Waggoner’s breathing was a rasping, ugly sound. His eyes never left Trevallion’s. “If I’d of seen you I’d of stomped the life out of the both of you.”

  “No doubt. You were never anything but a brute. I’d not disgrace an animal by calling you that.” Changing the subject he said, “Was it Hesketh who was paying you?”

  “Hesketh?” Waggoner was obviously surprised. “Hesketh from the Solomon? Well, I’ll be damned. Then it was him. He left the whiskey in that ol’ wagon apurpose. Got ’em all drunk. Except me, nobody needed to get me drunk. I’d of been down there whether the rest come or no. That woman and the girl yonder, they passed me by like I was dirt. I figured to show ’em.”

  His gun swung up, but Trevallion had been waiting for it. The swinging barrel of his own pistol caught Waggoner’s wrist halfway, and the gun went spinning into a corner. Stepping over, always facing Waggoner, Trevallion scooped up the pistol with his left hand. He stepped back into the doorway.

  “You haven’t got much time, Waggoner. I’d spend it trying to make peace with the Lord. If by some chance you should live, you’ll hang.”

  He stepped out and pulled the door shut.

  At the edge of the stage he paused to reload his pistol and thrust it behind his belt. Waggoner’s gun he put behind his belt at the small of his back. He slid out of his coat. “Your dress is torn. You’d better wear this into the hotel.” He put his hand on her arm. “Are you all right? Not feeling faint?”

  “Shaky,” she admitted, “but I’ll be all right.” She turned to face him. “If I’d had anything to fight with, I might have whipped him. I had no idea I could do that well!”

  He laughed. “Let’s go,” he said gently, “you need some rest. You did all right.”

  The reaction was setting in, and she was trembling. He put his arm around her. “It’s only a little way,” he said.

  She clung to his arm. “Val, I was so frightened! He’s so, so evil!”

  “Not any more.”

  “You—he will die?”

  “Yes.”

  Ledbetter was coming up the walk. “You all right? I heard shooting.”

 
“It was Waggoner. He’s back yonder in the theater. He’s in bad shape, and by now the shock is wearing off, and he’s beginning to feel it.”

  “We had some shooting, too. In the hotel, I mean. Albert Hesketh is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Jacob Teale was in his room, waitin’ for him. When Hesketh came in, he killed him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, not exactly. Teale was in bad shape. How he even got over to the hotel from the hospital is hard to figure, but he done it.

  “Hesketh must have been full of his own thoughts because he came in, hung his coat over a chair-back, and went to the sideboard for a drink. He must have been upset by something, because he wasn’t a drinking man. He must have looked up from his glass and glimpsed Teale asettin’ there with his rifle.”

  * * *

  —

  Hesketh had been quick. The instant his eyes fell on Teale, he knew what Teale was there for. He turned around. “Jacob Teale! Just the man I need! How would you like to make ten thousand dollars?”

  “When I was a youngster,” Teale said, “a snake got into our rabbit hutch where I had baby rabbits. You’re like that snake.”

  “Ten thousand dollars!” Hesketh said. “I might even raise the ante a little because you’re the kind of man I can use.”

  Jacob Teale lifted his rifle. At that distance there was no need to aim. Hesketh saw it, choked with horror and fear; he saw the long rifle pointed at him, right at his belly. “No!” he pleaded. “Not me! You don’t understand! You can’t—”

  Teale shot him.

  The blow of the heavy lead bullet slammed him back into the sideboard. Some glasses fell and a bottle uncorked by Hesketh rolled to the floor, spilling some of its contents.

  “No! Please! You don’t…don’t…” He started forward and fell against the table, sliding off it to the floor. He started to crawl toward Teale. “This is wrong!” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s wrong! Not me!”

  He started to get up, his waistcoat saturated with blood. He pushed himself up from the floor, and Teale shot him again.