Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (21 page)

“You just wait, damn you! I’ll—”

“Tsk, tsk!” Trevallion said. “Don’t you ever learn? If you talk that way, next time I’ll have to be rough!”

He watched the man leave, then left himself, making his way back to the MacNeale claim. All was quiet. He waited, listening. No sound.

He went forward softly, pausing to listen at every other step. When he was inside, he lighted a lamp. Dane Clyde was asleep. Moving quietly, the lamp turned low, he got into bed himself. Then putting a hand half over the lamp-chimney, he blew out the light.

He lay still, wide awake, listening. He had heard nothing and he heard nothing now, but something disturbed him, something seemed wrong.

In the morning, he would find out in the morning.

He smiled suddenly, into the darkness. Tomorrow all hell would break loose.

The piece of land on which he had filed measured only a few feet, not much larger than the area covered by the Solomon hoisting-engine house, but unless he was mistaken it could prove to be the richest piece of the Solomon bonanza.

He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep. Outside in the darkness something stirred, but he heard nothing. A shadow appeared near the tunnel mouth and moved on cat feet past the cabin.

For a moment, when out on C Street, the shadow paused and looked back.

“Tomorrow,” its voice said, “tomorrow it will all be over!”

And then San Francisco!

Chapter 23

A
LBERT HESKETH’S BREAKFAST was served in his room. He arose at eight, shaved, and carefully parted his hair, and by the time he was ready his breakfast was at the door. He studied his beard in the mirror. He kept it carefully trimmed in the Van Dyke fashion.

He regarded himself with some satisfaction. He had come a long way, but in another four years he would own the Comstock. He was perfectly aware that others had identical ideas, and that others had taken steps toward that end. He was interested but not concerned, for he was on the ground, while the others of whom he knew were operating from San Francisco.

He went into his sitting room where his breakfast was neatly laid out. The newspaper, only a few months in existence now, was placed beside his plate. This was the
Territorial Enterprise,
an amusing sheet but not to be taken seriously.

He took up the paper, glanced through it, and replaced it on the table. He glanced through the San Francisco papers as well. The stock of the Solomon was where he wanted it, down a few points. He wanted Will Crockett’s stock or a part of it, and he wanted the stock price to be low so he could buy when the time came.

He knew more about Will Crockett’s finances than did Will, and the man had little cash. Somehow he must contrive to live and to pay his bills.

Ten shares were outstanding, and those ten shares represented control until such a time as he could get all or some of Crockett’s stock. He had already arranged for Crockett to be offered a loan, putting up stock as collateral. He would himself put up the money for the loan, strictly a secret thing, and he was sure that with Crockett’s casual way with money the stock would soon fall into his own hands.

Nonetheless, that outstanding ten shares was a problem. They had worried him from the start, for they were the only shares on which he had no lead. There was no indication who owned them. They had been sold at the very beginning from a company Crockett had operated in California, a company which had purchased the Solomon. In those days Crockett had been able to sell stock to only a few acquaintances, and during their time together Hesketh had quietly tried by every means to find out who owned them.

He led Crockett into long, rambling tales of his youth, of his early days in the mining business, listening patiently, avid for names.

The trouble was that Crockett liked people and he had known about everybody and had been friendly with everyone, even outlaws and people from the theater. Nowhere was there the semblance of a clue. Nor was Crockett being secretive, he either did not remember or thought it of too little consequence, and Hesketh dared not ask him the direct question. He was afraid he might make Crockett suspicious.

Hesketh had reason to be pleased with himself. He now had control of a mine he believed would prove to be among the richest on the lode. He had stock in several others and owned some nearby claims. He had moved with care and until now had kept himself in the shadows. Now he was a mine owner and an important man. He had moved into the Virginia House where he could live like a gentleman, and when the International was complete, he would live there.

He had no intimates, rarely indulged in conversation, and secretly viewed all those about him with contempt. He used all whom he could, ignored the others. He trusted no one, permitted no one to get even an inkling of what he planned. He had no enemies, unless Will Crockett had become one, and but few worries. If all went as he planned, he would soon be untouchable.

Finishing his breakfast, he put aside the papers, donned his coat, and went down the carpeted stairs to the lobby. He paused only long enough for a glance and went into the street.

Since moving to the Virginia House he had begun a new lifestyle but one calculated to attract attention. Virtually without scruples, he was completely concerned with himself and his own plans. He believed all others were like himself, completely devoted to their self-interest—except, perhaps, such blunderers as he conceived Will Crockett to be.

That he had betrayed the trust of a man who had consistently helped him had never so much as come to mind. He had seen his opportunities and taken advantage of them.

Now, neatly dressed in a gray suit, he walked slowly along the street. From this moment on, he intended to move into a commanding position, and he wished everyone to see and know who was in command.

His walk on this morning ended at the Solomon.

He was scarcely in sight before the guard began waving at him. Irritated, he walked a little faster. What was all that frantic waving?

The guard was Joe Elsinger, a tough man. “Mr. Hesketh, when I got here, Alex was gone. Not a sign of him, anywhere.

“And look at that!” he pointed.

Hesketh had an angry reply on his lips until he saw the cairn. He started to speak, then stopped.

A cairn? A staked claim? Staked last night? By Alex? Not a chance. But by whom?

“Destroy it,” he said, “knock it down.”

“Mr. Hesketh? I can’t do that, sir. They’d call it claim-jumping. I’d get hung—shot, maybe. No, sir. That’s somebody’s claim marker.”

“That’s part of my claim!” Hesketh said irritably. “Don’t you suppose I know?”

“Sir? Begging your pardon, sir, but did you stake it? You, yourself? I knew of a case in Californy, sir, it was a case where the fifteen hundred feet seemed a mite long and some real sharpies, they measured it off and found it was eighteen hundred feet. So they staked the richest end of that claim, and they held it.”

Hesketh’s face was pale.
Crockett!
That damned fool! Couldn’t he do anything right?

For a moment he felt sheer panic, then a blind rage that left him fairly trembling with fury. Desperately he fought for control.

“It will be all right, Elsinger. I’ll handle this. There’s been some mistake, I think.” He paused. “When did you get here?”

“Seven, sir. That’s when my shift begins. I came on at seven and there was no sign of Alex. I looked high and low, but I did find his rifle.

“And it looks like there was some scuffling. I mean the ground was tore up and there were a few drops of blood. Nothing serious.”

“Thank you, Elsinger. Now you just stay on the job.” He would have to see whose name was on the filing notice. He walked out, hesitated again, then lifted away several stones.

Crockett & Trevallion!

He replaced the notice and walked back to the hoisthouse. For a moment he stood there, fighting the fury that gripped him. Crockett would never in the world have gall enough to pull something like this. It had to be Trevallion. That damned—

He stood very still. His eyes widened a little, and he touched his tongue to too dry lips.

Trevallion!

He must be careful, very, very careful. For this he would want an attorney. Trevallion was dangerous. He had heard that more than once, and Trevallion was no fool. He was no longer fighting just that blundering idiot of a Crockett but a shrewd, tough fighting man. He must be very, very careful! At the same time, he must have that corner. The richest ore might lie, should lie, right there under that cairn, or under the whole area they had staked.

He turned and walked back down the street to the Virginia House. Now he must think. Do nothing without thinking, nothing without careful planning.

Do nothing at all now. Within a matter of hours everybody in camp would know and most of them, a lot of sentimental fools, would sympathize with Crockett. So let them sympathize, let them have their day, and then, when some other sensation was holding their attention, he could move.

They had made a fool of him and they would pay, he would make them pay.

He returned to his room and ordered a pot of tea. He hated the stuff, but to him there was something cool and elegant about it. When the story was told, it would sound very good. “‘What did Mr. Hesketh do? He simply returned to his rooms and ordered a pot of tea. You know how he is. Nothing disturbs Mr. Hesketh.’”

That was what they’d say, or something like it. He must be calm. He must wait. He must think.

Late last night was when it had been done. Probably after midnight.

Trevallion. So far as he knew he had never seen the man, although there were stories enough about him. He had faced Sam Brown. Maybe—

No. To do that he must approach Brown or somebody close to him, and that would not do. Besides, he wanted nothing to do with the man.

He must think, plan. Above all, he must keep cool. He must be in control.

W
HEN TREVALLION AWOKE, Dane Clyde was already gone. Coffee was made, and there was some bacon at one side of the stove, keeping warm.

Today he would finish those holes he had started, load and shoot them. He had done too little work, and he was going to have to send some ore to the smelter.

Trevallion walked along the tunnel, pausing briefly at the niche where he kept his black powder. He remembered he had been running short when he fired his last round. He paused, hefting the can.

Light, very light. Well, he’d get a couple of holes drilled, anyhow. He wanted to be around this day to see what steps Hesketh would take.

He walked up to the face. Several pieces of drill steel of successive lengths were propped against the wall, waiting for the changes he would make. One drill lay on the ground on an angle away from the face. He took up his single-jack, placed it near his foot, and reached for the drill.

He stopped, bent over, arms hanging; he looked at the drill steel again. Slowly, he straightened up. Now what the hell?

That was wrong, all wrong! Trevallion was a man of habit. When working alone, as he usually was, if he left a hole incomplete, he always left the proper length of steel in front of the hole as a reminder there was more to be done. It was one of those little habits men pick up, and it had been his way for years.

Always, he left the drill steel on a direct line with the hole, no matter where it was on the face of the drift, and this drill was lying diagonal to the face.

Could it have rolled? Unlikely. Then how—It was then he remembered the powder can. It had been light, too light.

He took up his candle and looked all around, very carefully. Nothing was disturbed, nothing out of place but that drill and the powder can that had been lighter than expected.

Taking up his tamping stick he thrust it into the hole, very gently. Not over eighteen inches, and if memory served him, he had that hole in nearly two and a half feet. He withdrew the stick, and squatting on his heels, he contemplated the situation.

Somebody had slipped in here during the night, or when both Clyde and he were gone, and had loaded that hole with a considerable amount of black powder. Without a doubt there was a cap there also, and the intent was obvious.

He had been expected to put a drill down that hole and hit it a crack with the single-jack, exploding the powder and killing him. The natural conclusion would have been that he had drilled into a missed hole, one that had failed to fire.

It was a not uncommon happening in hard-rock mining and would have called for no more than a shrug and a funeral.

The logical answer now would be to fish for the charge with a wooden or copper spoon to strike no sparks, or to drill another hole close by and let the second charge explode the first. He chose the second method.

In fact, the holes were already drilled. He loaded several, enough to break the ground properly, then spit the fuses.

Some time would be necessary to let the powder smoke clear out before he could go down again, but he had no wish to show himself around town and let them know their attempt had failed. At least, not yet.

He returned to the cabin, prepared a light lunch, and sat down to think it out.

Somebody had tried to kill him. It could not have been Hesketh striking back, because at that time he had made no move against Hesketh, and had Hesketh known what he was about, he could have brought men to stop him.

Who?

It had been months since that last shot had been fired at him, yet this might be the same man. Yet why wait so long? He had been out of town, somewhere.

Waggoner?

Trevallion resolved to drop all actual mining until he had blasted another way out. One attempt had been made in the mine, and he was vulnerable there, so another attempt would surely be made. He had planned another opening to insure a proper circulation of air, and he must let everything wait until that was done.

There was no way anyone could reach the mine now without going right past the MacNeale cabin, where he lived. Their only chance was at night.

Dane Clyde came in an hour later. He hung up his hat and coat and turned sharply around. “Well, it’s happened! I’ve got a job!”