Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (31 page)

His father rarely talked at the table, but when he did it was of business transactions of which he had heard and of which he always spoke enviously but seemingly without any desire to emulate them.

“Why don’t you do that?” he asked his father.

“I haven’t the capital,” his father had replied. “It takes money to make money.”

Yet later he heard men talking downtown, and one was telling how old Colonel Hesketh had made his money. “Trapped muskrats along the river,” the man said, “sold his fur and bought a wagon-load of apples. He drove a rig into the country and traded those apples. Then he bought pigs and drove them to market.

“On one of his trips he saw this place, so he bought land here, built a store, and loaned money. Then he opened a bank.”

Albert despised his father. His mother was a pale, sickly woman who was always “ailing.” He was an only child.

At fourteen he began helping in the store. At fifteen he saw an old lady drop some money as she turned away from the counter. He picked it up and kept it. Here and there he managed to put his hands on little bits of money which he hoarded.

He hated the house he lived in and the town, and had but one desire, to be rich. Just what he would do when he was rich he had not considered. When he was sixteen, he left a back window at the store unlatched, entered in the dark, and took the money from the coffee sack in which it was hidden. He left some cans on the floor and carried away a few other things which he hid, not wanting them but to give the appearance of robbery.

When he left he broke the window near the latch to leave the appearance of forced entry.

A few days later he began inquiring for another job, and even went to a neighboring town to apply. All this was to give the appearance of a desire to move on, to better himself, so when he left no one would be surprised.

When he left he said no good-byes. He simply packed and caught a ride on a wagon as far as Pittsburgh, and then on a river boat. His first job was in Lexington, and he stayed, working as a bookkeeper and counterman in a supply store, for two years. By careful handling of purchases and accounts, he enriched himself by several hundred dollars before taking a steamboat to St. Louis.

He carried his money in a leather wallet inside his shirt. Emerging from the dining room, he started to his cabin when a roistering, loud-talking group descended upon him. “Come on! Have a l’il drink wi’ us!” A man grabbed him in a rough but seemingly friendly fashion. “Come on! Join us!”

“No, thanks. I—”

It was with difficulty that he succeeded in pulling himself free of them. He got into his cabin and shut the door, then removed his coat. Suddenly his hands went to his waistband, feeling wildly about. The wallet was gone! All the money he had stolen and that which he had worked for was gone.

Rushing back to the deck, he looked wildly around. The wallet was there…empty!

He started for the saloon where he could hear shouts and boisterous laughter, then he stopped. Whom could he accuse? There had been seven or eight of them, perhaps more, and he had seen none of their faces because of the darkness.

In his pants pocket he had three dollars, in his cabin a carpetbag with a few items of clothing, and that was all. He dropped to his bunk and sat there, stunned.

Robbed! All his plans gone for nothing! All his carefully hoarded money
gone!

He was swept by a blind fury. He started to his feet ready to rush out.

He stopped. Caution was what he needed. It was dark, the boat was quiet. Soon some of the men would be leaving their drinking, and if he could find one alone.…

It was cool and dark when he stepped outside. The deck was empty. He went to the window and peered in at the crowd around the bar. That bulky man in the broadcloth coat had been one of them, he was sure.

He would wait.

It was almost an hour before the man in the broadcloth coat staggered from the saloon and started toward his sleeping quarters. From a neat pile of wood for the saloon stove, Albert chose a stick, then quickly he went down the passage after him. Hearing footsteps, the man had started to turn when Albert struck him.

The man fell to his knees and Albert struck him again. A quick glance again to right and left, and he went through the man’s pockets.

A five-dollar gold piece, no more.

Dragging the man to the side of the boat, Albert dumped him over. As the man hit the cold water there was a faint cry. If he was not conscious enough and a good swimmer, the stern wheel would take care of him.

There was no further chance. The others emerged in groups and went down the deck, lurching from side to side, arguing and protesting over something.

At last he went to bed, sleepless because of the sullen rage that gnawed at him.

He waited on the deck with the others, baggage in hand, while the steamboat pulled in to the dock at St. Louis. The talk around him was all of California, of the fortunes to be made in mining.

A man standing near him looked around suddenly. “Say! I don’t see Sam. Suppose he overslept?”

Another man turned and started back toward the cabins. “I’ll look. His wife will be waiting for him on the dock, with the kids.”

Moments later, he came running back. “He’s not there and his bunk’s not been slept in!”

“What?” A ship’s officer was nearby and the man went to him. Listening, Albert heard only a few words. “He wasn’t drunk. Drinking, yes, but not drunk. Made this trip all the time. Moving to St. Louis now.”

A low mumble from the officer, then the man replied. “Quite a lot, actually. Carried it in a moneybelt around his waist. Must’ve been a couple of thousand dollars.”

Albert swore, softly, bitterly.
All that money? And he had missed it. Gone now, gone for good
.

All landing was stopped. One by one the passengers were questioned. Albert answered simply and directly. One of the bystanders said, “He left early, turned in. I saw him leave, so he wasn’t even around when it happened.”

“I was tired,” Albert said.

One of the men turned his head and glanced at him, his brow puckered a little, but he said nothing.

“Fell overboard,” the officer finally decided. “Happens all the time. A man’s been having a few and he’s walking down the deck, boat gives a little lurch and he falls. Too bad.”

In St. Louis he found a job clerking in a store, and within a week he understood how things worked and was stealing, very little at first, then as his confidence increased, he stepped up what he was taking. Suddenly and without warning he was discharged. The owner simply said, “Take your money and get out. Don’t come back, even as a customer. Just keep going.”

He asked no questions, made no protests. He was getting off easy and knew it, yet it worried him in that he had no idea of how he had erred.

He found another job the following day and was careful to do everything correctly. He worked hard, became a skilled buyer of furs and hides, and learned all aspects of the business. Not knowing how much communication there was among various businessmen, he was careful to arouse no suspicion. He was a meticulous worker, keeping neat, exact books, and he made several suggestions that increased the business and cut the costs.

The great days of the fur trade were long past, but the trade in hides was just coming into its own. On Albert’s advice the firm branched out into the sale of harness, saddles, and farm equipment of various kinds. He received a modest raise in salary, and he accepted it with thanks, mentally sneering at the amount. Meanwhile he read all he could find about mining and about California.

He became aware that the owner rarely made more than a cursory check of the inventory which fluctuated rapidly, so he began setting aside bundles of prime furs, buying at lower and lower prices from trappers who were in debt to the firm, and entering their purchase at the usual cost. By manipulating shipments he soon built a secret cache of bales of valuable furs, which did not exist on the books but which remained in the cellar warehouse. Nothing was missing from the premises, but he had secreted a large amount of valuable merchandise to be shipped at his discretion. If found, he would merely claim he knew nothing about them, and it had been some kind of oversight.

Men were growing rich in the mines, and Albert wanted to be among them, but he would need capital to invest. To work in the mines, to actually work with shovel and pan was no part of his plan of action.

As another winter drew to a close, he made his decision. He would go west in the spring. He would have his own wagon, his own supplies. Not only what he would need, but enough to sell when he arrived. The problem now was to get those bales of furs out of the cellar and to dispose of them.

Months before he had chosen his buyer, a greedy man not disposed to ask questions. Delivery of the furs was promised and arranged for, and Albert gave his notice.

He had talked of going to California, and many were going, so his decision occasioned no surprise.

Even at the low state of the market, the furs he had secretly stored would come to eight or nine thousand dollars.

Over a drink in a cheap saloon he asked the buyer, “Franz? Can you take delivery of those furs tonight?”

“Tonight?” Franz looked into his glass. “Why not?”

“I’ll get a dray to haul them around,” Albert suggested.

Franz waved a dismissing gesture. “I’ve my own man. I’ll send him around whenever you like.”

“You will have the money? I shall want cash.”

“Of course.”

Albert Hesketh was pleased. He would go to California in style. There would be no charges against him, all would be smooth, neat, and well handled.

At eight o’clock the streets near the warehouse were dark and silent. At ten the dray pulled up, and helped by the drayman, the bales of furs were loaded on the dray. As the dray pulled off, Albert started on his way to the saloon.

He went in, ordered a drink, and sat down to wait, and wait.

After fifteen minutes he began to fidget, after thirty he was up, peering out the window.

He waited for another hour, then two hours. Franz never appeared. Furious, Albert Hesketh went around to the hotel where Franz lived. He was sitting in the bar, holding a stein of beer.

“Sit down! Sit down!” Franz waved a hand toward a chair. “Where are your furs? We waited, and waited, but they never showed up.”

“Don’t tell me that!” Albert was ugly. “Your man took them. He had them all on his dray.”

“On
my
dray?
My
driver? Well, I’ll be damned! Maybe that’s why he never showed up!” Franz sipped his beer complacently. “Just like I was saying to your boss the other day. You just don’t know who to trust.

“I was asking him,” he added, “if he had any prime fur for sale. He said he hadn’t any right now, and he was sorry because he could use the sale.”

Franz sipped his beer, wiped his mustache with the back of his hand, and then said, “I think you’ve been tryin’ to trick me. You never had no fur. I’ve got your boss’s word for it.” His blue eyes were bland and smiling. “Well, better luck next time.”

“Damn you! I’ll—”

Franz waved a hand toward four men standing at the bar watching them. “If I were you I would just take a walk, a good long walk. If those boys got the idea you were thinking of getting rough…not that I couldn’t handle you.”

For a moment he sat there, trembling with suppressed fury. He wanted to get up, he wanted to tear the man to bits, he wanted to smash and smash and smash.

But Franz was larger, stronger, and the four men at the bar left him no choice.

He stood up, taking a long slow look at Franz. “All right,” he said quietly. “All right.”

He walked out and Franz looked after him, suddenly worried. One of the men came over. “Everything all right?”

“All right. Only I’d rather he had threatened me. Struck at me, something.”

Chapter 35

O
VER HIS WINE in the hotel dining room in Virginia City, Albert Hesketh’s eyes were hard with satisfaction, remembering that night. By dawn he had been miles on his way to Westport, behind him the sky was ablaze with fire.

That was the night Franz Halbert’s warehouse burned with over a hundred thousand in furs and hides. Surprisingly, a steamboat and barge belonging to Halbert also caught fire, although they were moored a half-mile from the warehouse.

A St. Louis paper, read in Westport, informed him that Franz Halbert was wiped out by his losses. That the fire had spread and destroyed other warehouses was, to Albert Hesketh, inconsequential.

Yet he had been uncertain of what to do or how to move with the little money he had with him—until he saw the man with the gold.

Ancient gold coins, one at least a Spanish coin; where that was, there must be more. The man had undoubtedly come upon treasure.

That had proved a disappointment, for the man had no treasure, only a small handful of gold coins and objects along with a couple of small gems. Yet it had proved enough to outfit Hesketh for California and to establish him once there. Moreover, there had been something left which, hoarded, had given him his start toward controlling the Comstock.

Now he must think. He must plan. The Solomon was now controlled by him and he must keep that control, no matter what it cost. Only the shares of stock he believed to be in the hands of Grita Redaway were needed. True, he had not seen them. He merely surmised their presence in her hands, for it was she who should have inherited them.

Trevallion’s filing on the adjoining claim was infuriating but no more than that. Trevallion was merely greedy for himself or had some childish notion of saving something for Crockett; in either case he could be handled or gotten rid of.

Suddenly uneasy, he shifted in his chair and refilled his wine glass. The trouble was not what Trevallion had done, but that
he
had done it. Was there some unrealized purpose behind it?

No matter. He would destroy them. Judge Terry might be the means. Terry was a shrewd, intelligent man somewhat blinded by his passions and his purposes. Terry wanted the gold and silver of the Comstock for the Confederacy. Even now he was plotting to seize it all.