Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (46 page)

One phase of his plan was already in progress, and the second phase must be the elimination of Jacob Teale. That elimination could be the something else he needed, the something that would distract attention and keep people from wondering what had become of Margrita and Trevallion.

Margrita’s guards would be in place soon, but only after Trevallion and the girl had reached the mine, and probably would be unaware of their presence there.

The removal of Teale was of first importance as Teale would be suspicious, and he could not be distracted from what he conceived to be his duty.

As he straightened his tie in the mirror, he was pleased with the reflection. He had planned well, although he did not like spur-of-the-moment planning. He liked time to consider, to gloat, to enjoy all the subtle details. On this occasion too much depended on the actions of other people, something for which he had a basic distrust.

He was not worried about Waggoner. He had come to have absolute confidence in the big man. Waggoner took his time, he did what he was told, and he left no loose ends. Waggoner’s part presented no worries. Of the other two he was not so sure. He knew them too little, but after meeting Teale there was a good chance he would not have to worry about them later. He would surely kill one and perhaps both. The important thing was that he be killed himself.

Now for the note. First he composed it in his mind, then he printed it in neat block letters.

FIND AND KILL JACOB TEALE. OUTSIDE INTERNATIONAL. $250 EACH. $500 IN ALL. MUST BE DONE TONIGHT. $200 NOW. REMAINDER WHEN JOB DONE.

He read over the note. It was being done too swiftly, but there was no other choice. It was now or never, and he hoped his message would not be lost on Les and his partner.

Two hundred fifty dollars each, $500 in all…in other words, the survivor might find himself with the whole $500, and no need to share. Might that not be a temptation too great to resist when a lot of shooting was going on, anyway?

Waggoner would be at the Solomon or returning. The others would probably be at some saloon, yet even if they saw him, something he did not wish to happen, they would not long be around to enjoy their knowledge. He put on his hat, took up the cane he had begun carrying, and went down to the lobby.

As he left the International he saw Teale from the corner of his eye, seated on a bench near the hotel door, where he often was.

Virginia City was, even in late afternoon or evening, a noisy, busy town. Stamp-mills were going, compressors were pounding, teamsters cursing their mules, and the usual sounds of laughter, pianos, and bawdy song from the saloons.

He had worked out several methods of getting messages to Waggoner, but none of these would work with Les and his partner, for they had not been instructed beforehand. He must take the risk and deliver the note right to Waggoner’s cabin.

What if Waggoner discovered it first? Well and good. Teale would be eliminated in any event, but then Teale might kill Waggoner and this Hesketh did not want. Waggoner he needed, for a little while longer.

He wore his neat gray suit, and he strolled casually, pausing from time to time to look at the face of the city. He knew he would be observed and expected it, but he had already set the stage with his previous walks. They would dismiss him at a glance.

There was no light in the window, although it was early for that, and there was no sign of activity. He paused, twice he picked up bits of rock and examined them before casting them aside. That, too, was the usual thing in Virginia City where everyone at the time had minerals on the mind.

Pausing to study the rocks, he studied the cabin. It looked safe. After all, he could just say he was looking for a miner, he wanted more help at the Solomon.

In his pocket was the note, and in his pocket was the gold. He hated to pay out money, but in this case there was at least a chance he would never have to complete the bargain. With luck they would take care of both Teale and each other.

He paused again, touching his brow with a linen handkerchief. Still no movement. The place was probably empty.

He knew where the note should go, as he had used the place before this. It was a mail slot made of an open-ended cigar box built into the wall. On the outside there was a little wooden door. He had never seen the inside.

He glanced around. Nobody was around. Nobody was watching. He stopped in front of the cabin, lifting his fist to knock, then dropping his hand to open the slot. Inside he placed the note and the gold.

He lowered the little door and turned away. He had not taken a step when he heard the door open behind him. He had taken a second step before he heard the voice.

Inwardly, he cringed. He felt the muscles in his back tighten and he fought down an impulse to run. Then he turned as the voice said, “Well, look what we got here, Rig! We got us a visitor!”

He knew their faces. They were older now, their features seamed with the tracks of years gone by, but they were the men he remembered.

“How do you do, gentlemen? Can I help you in some way?”

“You can tell us who you are.”

“I believe that would serve no purpose for either of us.” The message was there, the gold was there. To attempt to play the innocent would be absurd. A bold face was needed. “We have little time for nonsense. Who I am or who you are does not matter. There is a note in the box. There is also the sum of two hundred dollars in gold. I would suggest you read the message, put the gold in your pockets, and do what is suggested. If you want the other three hundred.”

“He’s talkin’ money, Les. He really is. Maybe we should listen.”

“This money for us or for Waggoner?”

“It is for you, but you must act quickly. The day after tomorrow, even tomorrow, and you’d be wasting time.”

“How’d you know about us?”

“I make it my business to know useful people. I need an expert job done now, and I mean
now
. I’d prefer it be done within the next two hours.”

“And you got three hundred more when it’s done? That’s two-fifty apiece. Who is this guy?”

“His name is Teale.” Briefly, he described him. “A few minutes ago he was sitting on a bench down by the International. I would suggest you give him no warning.”

They both looked at him. “What’s that mean?”

“Only that he is armed, and I would presume such a man might be dangerous. So why get hurt? You can always say he was going for his gun. Or that he killed your maiden aunt back in Memphis.”

“Five hundred dollars? Way I heard it you didn’t pay so much.”

“There are two of you. It must be done at once. You men are expert in your, your profession. For top work, I pay a top dollar.”

He drew out his watch. “I must be going, gentlemen, but I’d prefer the job be done within the hour. Tomorrow morning your three hundred dollars will be in that box.”

Rig leaned his shoulder against the door jamb. He had a sly, taunting look in his eyes. “Suppose we just keep the two hundred an’ do nothin’?”

Hesketh smiled, and it was not a nice smile. “Then it would be my problem, would it not? Fortunately, I have had it happen but once.”

Abruptly, he turned his back and walked away. When he was back on C Street he paused. Now, they would have to die, one way or another.

He went inside and seated himself at his usual table in the dining room. The
Territorial Enterprise
and a San Francisco paper were folded neatly beside his place.

He unfolded the paper and sat back in his chair a little. He was suddenly frightened.

That man, that Jacob Teale, the way he had looked at him as he came up the steps. Almost as if he
knew
.

But that was nonsense. How could he know? How could he even guess at what was to happen in the next few minutes?

Nonetheless…

Albert Hesketh folded his newspaper and placed it beside him. That fellow Twain was writing again, the one so many thought amusing. So far he had said nothing about the Solomon or about him, but if he did—

He glanced at the menu, but it had not changed from the day before. He ordered, indicated his wine glass should be filled, and composed himself.

Any time now…just any time.

His brow was beaded with perspiration. Keep cool, he told himself. Just keep cool.

The waiter filled his glass. He watched the wine flow into the glass. Red, like blood.

Blood? What was the matter with him, anyway? He had been through this before. It was nothing. They would come and—

Somebody dropped a plate and some silver and he jumped as if shot. Then slowly, he settled back.

God! It had to work! It must work!

The sharp barking roar of the guns was almost anticlimactic. Three rapid shots, so close together they could scarcely be distinguished, then a single, final shot…and silence.

Chapter 53

W
HEN TREVALLION AND Margrita reached the Solomon, it lay warm in the afternoon sun. The cluster of buildings huddled together on a miniature plateau where the road ended. A long building on the left housed three offices, designated by doorplates:
Superintendent, Business Office,
and
Assay
.

At the backside of the small plateau was the hoisting-engine house and in front of it the head-frame and the collar of the shaft.

Facing the offices on the other edge of the flat surface were the blacksmith shop, toolshed, and the bins where the ore was dumped when hoisted. The Solomon was, as yet, a small operation and not to be compared with the Hale & Norcross, the Savage, Ophir, or many another along the lode. Will Crockett had listened too long to Albert Hesketh, and Hesketh had deliberately hindered development to gain control with less trouble.

“If the mine is to be worked properly,” Trevallion suggested, “you will need capital. You need to go deeper, drift into my claim—”

“But it is your claim,” she protested.

He shrugged. “We can face that problem when we come to it. I filed it in my name and Will Crockett’s, and as his heir you would own part of it, anyway.”

“But you did that for Will. I wouldn’t hold you to that.”

“I don’t welsh my bets,” he said. “I’ll retain my half but we can work it together.”

The door of the business office opened, and Santley stepped out. “How do you do?” he addressed Trevallion. “I know you by sight, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I’m Trevallion. Mr. Santley, this is Miss Redaway.”

“How do you do? I hope you are not thinking of going into the mine, Mr. Trevallion? The men are all off work now. If you could come back on Monday—”

“If I want to go below,” Trevallion said, “I’ll climb down the man-way.”

“Well, but it is dangerous, you know, and we had a note from Mr. Hesketh particularly warning Miss Redaway not to go into Forty-Nine. It is a closed area.”

“Why?” Margrita asked. “Why is it closed?”

“Because it is dangerous, I presume. Mr. Hesketh does not communicate with me. I mean he makes his own plans and keeps them to himself.”

“You’ve seen the assay reports?” Trevallion asked.

“No, sir. They go directly to Mr. Hesketh. Mr. Shinmaker, he’s the assayer, he has orders to talk to no one, and he won’t. Not a word.”

Santley glanced around. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you, ma’am, but Mr. Hesketh stopped work there very abruptly, in Forty-Nine, I mean. For no reason that I can think of. Just ordered the men out and closed it off with some timbers. A fencelike…but nothing one couldn’t go past, if one wished.”

He paused again. “They may have had some trouble with mud, you know.”

“We’ll just look around,” Trevallion said. “Miss Redaway has never seen a mine.”

“Of course.” Santley glanced at his watch. “I was just about to close up. Will you be needing a key?”

“We will, thank you. No need for you to stay. We’ll not be long.”

Trevallion showed her the offices, explained a little about assaying, and when they emerged the sun was going down.

She turned on him suddenly. “Val? I want to go down!”

“In the mine? At this hour?”

“Well,” she said, “it won’t be any darker down there at night than in the day. Can’t we take a pair of those lamps?” She indicated a row of them hanging on a small rail near the assay office. “We wouldn’t be long.”

“Wait, come back in the daytime when somebody is around. One should never go into a mine unless someone else knows you’re there.”

“Oh, come on, Val! We’d only be a few minutes. I want to see what’s so strange about that Forty-Nine place.”

He hesitated. It was foolish. Yet he was curious, too. What was the mystery about Forty-Nine?

“Well—”

“Come on, Val! We’ll only be gone a few minutes! You’ve been down in this mine, haven’t you?”

“It’s been months. Will had me down to look it over just before he was dispossessed. No doubt there have been a lot of changes since then. It’s deeper, I know, and they’ve run some drifts. Let’s go back inside for a minute.”

He had noticed the layout of the mine-workings on Santley’s desk and he went back, bending over it. He had no trouble locating Forty-Nine.

He studied the situation with care, not liking it. Still, they would be down but a few minutes.

“You will get very dirty,” he warned, “it’s wet and muddy down there.”

“I’ll change at the hotel. I’ve been dirty before.” She laughed. “Come on, Val! Show me!”

“You’ll have to climb ladders,” he warned again.

“I’ve climbed mountains in the Alps,” she said, “and I’ve done a lot of rock climbing. You needn’t worry about me.”

“We won’t bother with the lamps,” Trevallion suggested. “They drip oil and can be dangerous. We’ll take candles. Three of them will last ten hours, but we’ll take twice that many, just for luck.” He hung his coat on a hook and took a miner’s jacket that hung nearby, dropping extra candles into the side pocket, and a spiked candleholder for fixing candles against a wall.

It was dark and still in the mine. Margrita was excited and interested but a little frightened, too. There was no sound but the drip of water, and an occasional rattle of falling rocks. They picked their way along the narrow track on which the ore-cars ran, and at a fork in the drift, Trevallion picked up a shovel.