Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (29 page)

He drew up, taking his time. Hesketh shrank back into the shadows inside the coach. Grita slipped her derringer into her hand.

“I’m not carrying anything,” the driver said mildly, “the box is empty, as you can see.”

“Well, there’s always the passengers,” the bandit said cheerfully. Two more men had come from the bushes on his right and left.

“I’ve got some women aboard, boys,” Dave spoke mildly still. “They’re play-actresses. You know how the boys in Virginia set store by their shows and such. I just want to warn you boys that you touch one of those womenfolks and you’re askin’ for a hangin’.”

The man doing the talking, whom Grita guessed might be Pottawottamie Joe, gestured toward the stage with his gun. “You all jus’ step out here, nice an’ easy like, an’ nobody’s goin’ to get hurt.”

Before a move could be made, Grita spoke. “You have three guns out there, my friend, and we’ve got six in here. Do you still want us to get out?”

“The lady’s right. You boys just stopped the wrong stage. I suggest you just back off and go to your horses.”

Manfred’s gun was in his hand as he spoke. “We don’t intend to be robbed. You might get one of us, but we’d get all of you. Now what’s it to be?”

Mary Tucker was holding her gun and so was the man in the brown suit. Grita leaned back, looking at the men inside the stage. “Be very careful, gentlemen,” she said, “when you fire, that you direct your aim to the outside. We wouldn’t want any accidents now, would we?”

Albert Hesketh held his gun low, but Grita’s derringer was not pointed toward the outside. She was looking right at him.

Pottawottamie Joe was in a quandary. Never in his long outlaw career had he faced a stagecoach that held as many ready guns. Usually they stepped down and handed over their valuables without question, yet he had no desire to try his luck with a stage filled with guns.

“You got me euchered, lady,” he said cheerfully, “you surely have. Why don’t you just go along easy and we’ll call it quits?”

Dave lifted his whip and the team started. He waved at the outlaws and they waved back.

Albert Hesketh sat slowly back, very watchful. Pottawottamie Joe had struck unexpectedly soon, and he had failed. But who could have expected resistance? And such a show of guns?

Suddenly he was shaking with fury. That damned woman! That dirty—He fought himself back to normal, still trembling.

Nobody was looking at him, they were all chattering about the holdup. Only that Redaway girl, she was not talking.

Where was Waggoner?

Chapter 32

T
HE BURST OF fury passed and left Hesketh cold and empty, chilled through and through as if he had been exposed to an icy wind. For a few minutes his thoughts were confused, and he felt like leaping from the coach and running off into the woods.

His hands gripping his legs above the knees, he fought himself to calmness. The holdup had taken place and Jacob, if he was present, had not acted, which might mean that he still waited upon opportunity.

Waggoner would be next, but would Waggoner know Jacob? Yet Waggoner would get the shares from the Redaway girl, or would he?

She had acted with unexpected resolution and quickness of mind. Who would have believed that a mere play-actress could so suddenly bring all those guns into action? If she did the same thing to Waggoner, what could he do?

Hesketh, calm once more, tried to think it through. He
must
have those shares. He was positive the actress had them. During the months he had worked for Crockett he had examined everything in the company safe, every ledger, every paper, every letter. Tucked away in one of the drawers was a list of people to whom Crockett had sold stock when the company was still in California. Each shareholder Hesketh had tracked down over the months.

The idea of the holdup had seemed simple enough. He could not recall a case where the people being held up had not been relieved of their valuables without incident, unless there was a shotgun messenger aboard. The stage would be held up, among the things taken would be the shares, and they would be delivered to him.

Who would have expected a damned fool woman to take charge like that? He could not blame Pottawottamie Joe for backing down. It was the intelligent thing to do. The three guns outside could have riddled the stage, but the guns inside would have blown him out of the saddle and his men as well.

Waggoner,
where was Waggoner?

With Marcus Zetsev out of the picture, Hesketh had been sure he could make a deal for the shares if they fell into hands other than his. Now it was up to Waggoner.

Inside the moving coach the passengers were settling down. Talk was dying out. Soon they would be relaxed, off guard, not expecting trouble.

If Jacob was aboard the coach, which one was he? Hesketh’s eyes went from the slim, silent man to the man in the brown suit.

A bulky, heavy man, was it fat or muscle? Some of the most powerful men he had ever seen looked fat. The man smelled of stale cigar smoke, and he had blunt, strong fingers with the nails cut sharply off. His thick neck bulged against the stiff collar. A heavy gold watch-chain hung from pocket to pocket of his vest, and there was a diamond stickpin in the red tie he wore. When Grita had called Pottawottamie Joe’s hand, the man in the brown suit had been very quick to produce a pistol, a .36 Remington.

Albert Hesketh was suddenly worried. Who
was
the man? He had produced that gun almost as if he had expected to need it, without hesitation and with a readiness for battle that surprised Hesketh.

The sandy-haired man, on the other hand, had sat very quietly, hands relaxed in his lap, not so much as a muscle stirring. Was he frightened? Ready? Or merely watchful to see which way the cat was going to jump?

He glanced over at Grita. She was relaxed against the back cushion, her eyes closed. Mary Tucker also seemed asleep.

The stage rumbled on, plunging down steep hillsides, climbing slowly, weaving a precarious way among trees and rocks.

They pulled up to Strawberry and the doors opened, letting light stream out over the hoofs of the horses and the wheels of the stagecoach. Sleepily, the passengers roused themselves and stepped down from the coach, Manfred lifting a hand to help Mary and Grita.

“Won’t be much time, folks,” Dave advised. “Grab yourselves some coffee and a bite, then we go on. We’re runnin’ behind because of that high water.”

Dane Clyde stood beside him as the passengers went by.

Dave nodded toward Grita Redaway. “There’s a cool one! Never seen the like! She stood ol’ Pot Joe right on his ear!” He turned and glanced at Clyde. “Ain’t you with her?”

“I’m in her company,” Clyde said. “Miss Redaway goes her own way.”

“I should reckon.” He spat. “Take a man with hair on his chest to handle that one. They must’ve all had their guns in sight, because I never knowed Pot to back off so fast.”

“I had mine out, too,” Clyde said quietly. “It was time. And I never shot a gun in anger in my life.”

“Well, you was close enough. Hard to miss at that range, although I seen it done, here an’ there.”

Grita went quickly to a table, and Manfred spoke to a waiter. “Miss Redaway is to perform in Virginia City, and she is very tired. If you have time—”

“An actress? You bet! Say, I heard of her! She’s mighty good, ain’t she?”

“The best,” Manfred replied. “If you will hurry now?”

He walked back to the table, pausing en route to glance around the crowded room. Hesketh had disappeared. The man in the brown suit had seated himself at a crowded bench by the simple method of crowding. The man next to him started to object, then seeing the bulk and manner of the newcomer he simply crowded over.

The floor was a mixture of sawdust and mud, and the room was full with booted men, two-thirds of them visibly armed.

A hawk-faced man in a battered slouch hat and a torn coat stopped near Manfred. “You come in on that there stage? Any room aboard her?”

“It’s crowded,” Manfred said. He pointed to the driver. “Talk to him. You might be able to ride the top.”

Manfred moved over beside Grita and accepted a cup of coffee without sitting down. His eyes were restless, alive and aware, studying the men in the huge room.

The slouch hat came back and Manfred asked, “Going with us?”

“Can’t say I am. Too rich for my blood. He wants five dollars to ride on to Washoe and I ain’t got but three.”

He started to turn away and Grita spoke. “Please? Do you have a minute?”

The man stopped, looking around at her. Quickly he removed his hat. “Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see there was a lady present.”

“Do you want to go to Washoe?”

“Yes’m. I got to git there somehow.”

She gestured toward his gun. “You look like a man who could use one of those. Can you? Will you?”

“I can, and I will,” he spoke softly, “but I never shot no man without cause.”

“There will be trouble before I get to the hotel in Virginia City. Mr. Manfred here can probably handle it, but I’d like him not to be alone.”

“My name’s Teale, ma’am. I’ve come on hard times. Fact is, I’ve never knowed much but hard times, all my born days. What is it you want?”

“I want to get to Virginia City safely, and without being robbed. I am Margrita Redaway and I believe there are plans to rob me.”

“A man who’d rob a lady like you,” Teale said, “must be pure-dee varmint.”

“I’ll give you—”

“Ma’am, you don’t need to give me nothin’. My ol’ mammy would turn in her grave did she think I was takin’ money for protectin’ a lady. You git me on that coach an’ nobody ain’t goin’ to bother you. I’ll get my possibles.”

“Wait, have you eaten?”

“Yes, ma’am. I et the day before yestiddy.”

“You’d better eat now. Get your things and come back.”

“He won’t wait, ma’am. I know he won’t.”

“He’ll wait.”

Teale glanced at her curiously, then walked away. A few minutes later he was back, carrying a rifle and a small, neatly wrapped pack of what appeared to be clothing. Food was on the table and he seated himself and began to eat.

“Richard? Will you see Dave? Tell him what’s happened and that we will not be long.”

Manfred hesitated. “You’ll be all right?”

“Mr. Teale is here.”

When Manfred had gone, Teale looked up from his food. “You’re trustin’ of strangers, ma’am.”

“No, Mr. Teale, I am not. However, I do trust my judgment of character. I knew at once you were a man to be trusted, that your word was good.”

“Well, now. I reckon I didn’t know it showed.”

“What are you going to do in Washoe? Work in the mines?”

“No, ma’am. I’d not be much account underground. There’s mills and such and I might try prospectin’ a mite. I’ve a brother there. He’ll know what’s available.”

“All right, Mr. Teale. I shall be in Virginia City at least a month. I’ll pay you forty dollars to work that month for me.”

“Ma’am, I ain’t dressed proper to be seen with a lady.”

“You will have an advance from me. You can buy some clothes in Virginia City.” She paused. “Mr. Teale, there is someone who believes I have several shares of mining stock that have become quite important. They will do anything to get those shares.” Briefly, she outlined the attempts in San Francisco.

He finished his meal and gathered up his belongings. Dave was waiting, whip in hand. He glanced at Grita Redaway. “What a man will do for a beautiful woman!” he said wryly.

“Thank you, driver. I appreciate the consideration. Shall we go now?”

With a fresh team, the stage rolled out. There were scattered clouds across a sky spangled with stars. They were higher now, and the air was cold. Atop the stage Dane Clyde glanced at his new companion. “My name is Dane Clyde,” he said, introducing himself, “I’m with Miss Redaway’s Company.”

“Company?”

“I’m an actor. Miss Redaway is an actress and a very good one. The company is hers.”

“Well, now. I never knowed no actors or actresses before. You carryin’ a piece?”

“If you mean do I have a gun, I do. I’m not very good with it. In fact, I never shot a gun. Trevallion told me I should learn.”

“A growed-up man an’ never shot a gun? Where’d you get your meat?”

“We bought it from a butcher shop. Or ordered it in restaurants.”

“Now, what d’ you know? Never heard tell of such a thing.”

Huddled between the mail sacks to keep warm, Clyde told the story of the attempted holdup and its failure.

Teale chuckled. “So she stood up ol’ Pot Joe? Wait until I see him!”

Startled, Clyde turned sharply. “The bandit? You know him?”

“I should smile, I do! Knowed him since he was a boy. Hunted buffalo a time or two with him. He knows me, too.”

They talked no more. The stagecoach plunged through the night, racing across meadows, rounding tight curves above vast depths, splashing through streams, slowing for long climbs and racing to make up time where the dim trail was straight. The air was cold and still, the few scattered clouds were gone and the sky was amazingly clear, and always there was the smell of pines or of cedar.

Here and there they paused to give the team a chance to catch its breath after a long climb. Once they all had to get out and walk behind to enable the horses to make it.

At Yank’s Station they changed teams. Hesketh got down and looked sharply around.
Where was Waggoner?
Only a little time was left.

For the first time he saw Teale. He glanced at him, then looked again. “Do I know you?” he demanded.

“No, Mr. Hesketh, you don’t. You never saw me before.”

“But you know me?”

“You’re gettin’ to be a famous man, Mr. Hesketh. Folks talk about you.”

Something in the man’s attitude and tone disturbed him. “You’re sure we haven’t met before?”

“Don’t seem like it. I been around a good bit but I never knowed anybody named Hesketh, and that’s a fact.”

He paused a moment. “It was a great loss. Mr. Hesketh, a great loss. All of us will be the less for his passing.”

“Passing? Who?”

“Why, Marcus, Mr. Hesketh. Marcus is gone, and we will sorely miss him. His place is gone, too. Burned by the Hounds, they say. But then everything that happens in San Francisco is laid to either the Hounds or the Ducks. It is a pity, Mr. Hesketh, but it is the way of things, in the midst of life there is death. Death is always with us, Mr. Hesketh.”