Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (32 page)

If he tried there would be trouble, and knowing the men of the Comstock for what they were, probably shooting trouble. In the shooting Trevallion could be killed and his property seized and eventually new claims staked. So the thing to do was to help Terry. Quietly, secretly, with men and with guns.

A good meal and two glasses of wine and he felt better. True, he had failed to get the shares of stock, but they were probably here, and for the time being, Will Crockett was not. And that meant he had time, not much time, but some.

He was rising to leave when Grita Redaway came in, flanked by Dane Clyde and Richard Manfred. All heads turned as she was escorted to her table by the waiter. Her eyes caught his and he bowed slightly, then left the room. Grita Redaway had arrived on the Comstock and there was no question about it, she was radiantly beautiful.

Hesketh paused at the entrance, wondering why his heart was beating so rapidly.

Part Four

Chapter 36

S
UN MOUNTAIN HAD caught the first light of dawn when Trevallion came down the slope to the bakery. Ledbetter and Tapley were already seated with their coffee, awaiting breakfast. Melissa was nowhere around at this hour.

“Hear that Alf something-or-other is sparkin’ her,” Tapley commented. “She’s doing well and honey draws flies.”

“Ask Ledbetter about him,” Trevallion suggested, “she’s too good for him.”

“Hesketh is back,” Ledbetter said. “Came in on the stage last night with those show folks. The way he was dressed you’d of thought he was a miner. That Dane Clyde come back with them, too.”

“I heard that Redaway woman is a looker,” Tapley said. “I talked to a man saw them gettin’ down from the stage.”

“Odd,” Trevallion said, “Hesketh dressed that way. He was never a miner, and never dressed like one.”

“They had trouble,” Tapley said. “Old Pot Joe tried to stand them up an’ that Redaway girl backed him down.”

“She what?”

“Seems she was armed, and so were several of those inside and when they presented their side of the argument Joe got the point and stepped back. There was another shooting after, somebody else seemed to have the same idea Joe did, but Jacob Teale was riding the top and he cut loose. That took care of that.”

“Jacob Teale?”

Tapley shrugged. “Seems that show woman hired him on the trail. She just taken one look and put him on the payroll.”

“Teale?” Ledbetter shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What’s she want with a man like him?” Trevallion asked.

“There’s but one reason for hiring Jacob Teale. You’ve got trouble and lots of it. But how did she know about him?”

Tapley spat. “She didn’t. No way she could have. She just seen him and hired him, it’s simple as that.”

Ledbetter glanced over at Trevallion. “You know him, Trev?”

“I know him.”

The coffee tasted good. He tasted it again and returned the cup to the saucer. Grita Redaway—unusual name, and could be the same girl. Waggoner had been out of town but would be back, by the looks of his cabin. Would he know who she was? Unlikely. But would she recognize Waggoner? That was unlikely, too, but he had been around the wagons a few times, and she could have seen him.

Anyway, she wouldn’t need any help. A girl with the sense to hire Teale would do all right. He frowned. Why had she done it? Right quick like that? How could an actress, a city woman, have the sense to hire
him?
Had it been an accident, that she chose Teale? And why did she think he was needed?

Jacob Teale was odd. He was a peculiar man by anybody’s standards, a solitary hunter, a killer as cold and remorseless as any he had ever known, but a religious, church-going man with a code right out of the Old Testament. He rarely took a drink, chewed tobacco occasionally and was never known to curse, at least not aloud.

Once up in the Modoc country they had been in an Indian fight together. Seven of them, all prospectors, had been trapped by a war party of young bucks out for some excitement. Two of the seven had been killed at the first volley and then it settled down to a daylong battle at long range.

During the night the others, believing Teale and Trevallion dead, had slipped away. The fight continued through another long, hot day, and then the Modocs, tiring of the game, pulled out and left them. Teale had been down to his last two cartridges, and Trevallion’s rifle had but one ball left. He did have a pair of six-shooters with extra cylinders, however.

Their horses gone, they had to make their way out afoot, and twice on that trek back Trevallion had killed game with his six-shooter, the first time a big-horn at better than fifty yards. The shot had gone in behind the ear, dropping the animal in its tracks.

Teale had looked at it, glancing up. “Could have been an accident.”

“It wasn’t,” Trevallion replied.

A few days later, short of meat again, he killed a mule deer with an identical shot. Teale looked at it, smiled slightly, and said, “I can believe in one accident, not two.”

After a pause he said, “Wouldn’t you say that was chancy? Wouldn’t you say behind the left foreleg or a neck shot would be better?”

“Under normal conditions, yes. But I’ve seen a deer run a quarter of a mile after being shot right through the heart. Neither you nor me are up to a long chase right now, so I figured to drop them right where they stood.”

Teale nodded. “Makes sense.”

A few days later Teale killed a deer with a shot in the same place. He gestured at it. “An accident, maybe?”

“Could be,” Trevallion said seriously. “If it happens again it will be no accident.”

He had seen Teale only once or twice since. Each time they had but nodded or waved. He had begun hearing stories about Jacob Teale before that, and a time or two he had seen him in church.

Odd that Grita Redaway should choose him that way, obviously seeing something there that she trusted, or preferred to have on her side.

Restlessly he moved in his chair, glancing up the street. The town was booming, and he had a feeling he should be out and doing, but there were things to be resolved. Should he go to Grita Redaway? He was sure she was the same person as the little girl he had known, and she still must be very young, but when people had to shift for themselves they matured early. Look at Melissa, operating a growing, expanding business, and several successful mine operators whom he knew were not yet twenty. It was a time when you made it quick or you might not make it at all.

He glanced at Ledbetter. The freighter had changed. He was better groomed these days, wearing better clothes, was seen with Hearst, Mackay, Fair, and the others who were moving ahead on the Comstock.

Trevallion got up, and with a brief wave of the hand, walked out on the street. For a moment he hesitated, glancing up and down. Then he went back to his own mine and went to work.

Long ago when in the mountains he had staked some timber claims, and considering the way the Comstock was using timber, they could be worth a mint. He finished drilling the round, then loaded the holes, lit the fuses, and came on top. When he heard the boom of his shots he counted them.

Good, no missed holes. Yet it would take awhile to allow the powder smoke to dissipate. He had had too many headaches from breathing powder smoke in a confined space to want another.

For a week he rarely left the mine or his cabin. The vein was growing wider, the ore richer. With Tapley’s help he made a small shipment, then another. Milling was no longer a problem as there were dozens, newly built, and hard at work. It was Tapley brought him word that Grita Redaway’s play was to open.

“You need to get out of this hole,” Tapley said. “Ledbetter’s got himself a box at the theater and he wants you to join him.”

“Maybe.” He paused. “Is Teale still around?”

“He’s here.” Tapley bit off a chew and rolled it in his jaws. “Gets around, he does. And mighty quiet about it. What kind of a man is he, anyway?”

“You’ve known his kind, Tap, but he’s an odd one. He lives by the Book, up to a point. Or maybe it’s just that he reads it his own way. I’ve traveled with him, worked and fought beside him. He’s good at any of it, but if he thinks a man needs killing, he’ll kill him. He will take money for a killing, but only if he thinks it needs doing.”

“No sign of Will Crockett. There’s talk around that he may have killed himself, or been killed.”

“I don’t believe he’d kill himself.”

“Nor me. Hesketh eats supper every night at the hotel. He’s moving ahead. Bought a mill that was having trouble and he’s milling his own ore.”

Tapley got up. “What will I tell Ledbetter?”

“I’ll be there. Meet him at the bakery.”

When Tap was gone he went and got out his black broadcloth suit. It was wrinkled from being packed, so he heated up a tea kettle and when it was steaming, held the spout close to the suit and slowly worked the wrinkles out, with much reheating of the water, moving the spout up and down over the fabric.

Then he got out a white shirt and a collar, collar buttons, and cuff links. He hadn’t been dressed up in over a year, the last time for a funeral.

He never missed a theatrical performance when he was in the area, and having a quick, accurate memory, he had learned parts of the plays from often hearing them. His reading consisted of whatever books or magazines were floating around the mining camps, which was generally good literature. Coming west in a wagon where every ounce of weight must be carefully judged, those who brought books brought the best, those which would stand continual rereading.

Leaving his cabin, he took a path that led between buildings and across lots to the bakery and was just emerging on the street when two men rode past.

Abruptly, he stopped. They were dusty from the trail, and their horses showed signs of hard travel. They passed him only a few feet away and one of the men had a missing little finger and a bad scar on his hand.

It was a hand one would not forget.

Chapter 37

T
HE HALL WAS crowded, with every seat filled. About one of every twenty was a woman. Trevallion followed Ledbetter, who was following the usher to a box at one side of the theater, if such it could be called. In a space suitable for four chairs, there were seven.

John Mackay was seated in a box across the theater. He nodded briefly. Jim Fair was with him.

Langford Peel strode down the aisle and took a seat in the third row, and one by one they filed in and took their places, the rich and the ones becoming rich, the bold, the dangerous, the acquisitive, the boisterous, and the shy.

Trevallion glanced around, looking for Jacob Teale, but there was no sign of him. No doubt he was backstage. Trevallion found a seat at the back of the box and against the wall. Ledbetter looked around as he sat down. “I hear this Margrita Redaway is a handsome woman,” he said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her,” Trevallion’s tone was mild. “Dane Clyde spoke of her.”

“He’s in the company,” Ledbetter gestured toward the stage.

Trevallion glanced around at the crowd. He was uneasy, but that was probably because he did not like crowds, and never had. There were familiar faces, and a few strange ones.

Bill Stewart, the attorney, came in. A big, broad-shouldered man with a shock of red hair. He glanced about, glimpsed Trevallion, and walked across the back of the theater and came over to the box. Dozens of people were coming and going or merely standing and talking. Stewart stopped by the box, glanced around, and then said, “How’s things, Jim?”

Ledbetter nodded. “Good enough. Snow on the pass already.”

“There’s going to be trouble, Jim. Terry’s got something on his mind.”

“The war. That’s all he talks about.”

“It has to do with that.” Stewart glanced at Trevallion. “Where do you stand, Trevallion?”

“I’ve never become involved in politics,” he replied mildly. “I’m a Cornishman.”

“You’re a citizen, though?”

“I am. And pleased to be one. What’s the problem?”

“Lincoln’s going to need help. Are you Union or Confederate?”

“I’m for the Union, Bill. It took awhile to put this country together. It would be a shame to tear it apart, no matter what the reason.”

Stewart rolled his cigar in his jaws. “They tell me you can use a gun and that you’ll stand your ground. I’ll need some good men.”

“You can count on me,” Ledbetter replied.

“I’d have to know more about it,” Trevallion said. “When a man uses a gun he’d better have a good reason, even if he does have a good lawyer.”

“What I have to do will be done with the sanction of President Lincoln, and at this juncture it is very important to his program and our victory. All I want is to keep trouble off my back for a few hours, maybe less.

“Ordinarily I fight my own battles, but this time I will be busy and I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“When you can, tell me about it. All about it. If it is legitimate, you can count on me.”

After Stewart had gone, Ledbetter said, “He’s a good man, Trev. One of the best.”

“I agree, but I let no man make my decisions for me. Not when it comes to what’s right or wrong. When there’s law, I obey the law. When there is no law I follow my conscience.”

He glanced around. “They’ve a full house, certainly. What is the play?”

“It’s been suddenly changed, I hear. They will play
Francesca da Rimini
. Why the change, I do not know.”

He knew the play and liked it. If Margrita was playing Francesca, as he assumed, she would not appear until the second act. Dane Clyde he recognized at once, although appearing as an older man and made up accordingly.

At the end of the first act, a waiter came around to take orders for drinks. He was ordering a beer when he happened to look past the waiter’s shoulder and saw Waggoner.

The big, rawboned man had come in, sitting down across the aisle and two rows ahead of where Trevallion sat. The seat had been empty throughout the first act.

The curtain went up on a scene between the Cardinal and Guido, Francesca’s father, and a moment later, Francesca entered.

Trevallion was startled. She was a beautiful woman, but beyond a doubt it was the same Grita he remembered.

As an actress her style was different, lacking the bombast and extravagant gestures of the other players. He scarcely heard the play through watching her. Although he knew it well, he had never heard it played as it was by this company. Moreover, the costumes were new, colorful, and a complete change from the worn and tattered costumes so many traveling companies possessed.

He had papers that belonged to her, yet he found himself curiously hesitant to meet her. What could he say? He had known a frightened little girl, and this was a woman, beautiful, accomplished, and accustomed to a life far from mining camps and the cold streams where men washed for gold.

If she remembered him at all, it would be a memory associated with horror.

Should he go backstage? There was small chance he would be admitted to see her. How then? At her hotel?