Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (52 page)

It was all going to end here, today. He knew that, smiling a little wryly when he considered that he, too, might end right here. They had killed his mother and his father, destroying their dream of a new home in a new land. Would they make it a clean sweep and get him, too?

Albert Hesketh worried him most of all. Hesketh would never draw a gun and so give him a chance to shoot him. Nor was there anything he could prove. Supposition, yes. He knew that Virginia City would know him guilty, but there was nothing he could prove.

He had no doubts about Waggoner or the Ax. They were men who used guns, strong men, confident men, each dangerous, each very sure of himself, and with reason.

He no longer wished to kill anyone, yet he had no choice. They had tried and would continue trying to kill him. Moreover, they had tried to kill Grita. He was a fool to stand so long in one place and started up the street.

Virginia City was going about its business, mining ore, mining money from the pockets of stockholders, freighting ore to the mills. The stamp-mills were pounding, people were coming and going, all oblivious of what was about to happen. Generally speaking, it was none of their business, but after it happened it would be, for a few days, a topic of conversation. Then some other interest would develop and it would become history, referred to occasionally as ‘do you remember—?’

Trevallion knew it all. He had been there before. Suddenly a rider pulled up beside him. It was Ramos Kitt.

“Heard you were in trouble. I come arunnin’ but you were already out.”

“Thanks, anyway.”

“Trev? Why are you my friend? You are, you know. It was on your advice that I started guarding gold. When I tried for a job, I found you’d recommended me. You knew I’d been an outlaw. Why?”

Trevallion was embarrassed. He shrugged. “I just knew you were too good a man to go to waste. A man does a lot of things when he’s a kid he wouldn’t do a few years later. So I put in a word here and there. It wasn’t anything.”

“You’re in trouble, Trev. I’m good with a gun.”

“You’re damned good, but you just stay with what you’re doing. A man’s success he can share with others, his troubles are his own. I’ve got it to do, Ramos. You know that better than anyone.”

Ramos Kitt turned his horse, then stopped. “It’s the Ax, you know. The Clean-Cutter. He’s fast, Trev, he’s very fast. Don’t try to match him, because nobody can. Take one if you must, but kill him. You may only get one, so put it where it matters.”

He paused again. “His big fault—I’ve seen it—he
wants
to be fast. Prides himself on it. He will, most of all, want to beat
you
. He’s so anxious to be fast that sometimes he misses that first shot. It’s something to remember.

“And watch yourself on the street, like this here. If he can, he’ll do it where it can be seen. He’s awfully good, maybe the best ever, but he’s a show-off, too.”

“Thanks, Ramos. I’ll remember.”

Kitt rode on, and Trevallion turned the thought on the spit of his mind. He did not consider himself a gunfighter. He had never wanted the name or prided himself on the things he had done. A man doesn’t sleep well on the bodies of the dead.

He wanted no part of the Ax. The man who concerned him now was Waggoner. Waggoner was a sullen brute, and he had made a vicious promise to Grita. Crossing the street, he took a passage between two buildings that let him out on a vacant lot. He skirted some old lumber and a pile of rusted tin cans and walked up toward Waggoner’s cabin. There was no movement, no sign of life. His rapping on the door brought no response. He peered in the window, and the room was empty.

He peered again. Something about the room worried him. Some bachelors were notoriously untidy, others were as neat as any old maid, but this room was too neat. It looked like the room of a man who was leaving for some time, everything put away, even the coffeepot.

He faced away from the cabin, then started down the hill. A woman, carefully nurturing a few flowers in her dooryard, straightened up. “You looking for him? I think he’s left, gone.”

Trevallion removed his hat. “Thank you, ma’am. What makes you think so?”

“He took his rifle and a blanket-roll and went down to where he keeps his horse.”

“And where would that be?”

She pointed. “He rents stall space from the same stable my husband uses. He’s riding a big roan now. Grains it a lot.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The stable door was closed but he went up to it, unlatched the door, and swung it open.

There were three horses in the stable who rolled their eyes at him, showing the whites. One was a big roan, weighing twelve hundred pounds if an ounce. The horse was saddled, blanket-roll tied in place, rifle in the boot. So Mr. Waggoner was packed, saddled, and ready to go someplace—but something must be left undone.

Grita…Waggoner was not so eager to kill as to demean, to crush her pride, to see her crawl. He had followed her up Six Mile Canyon, had cornered her there. Only Trevallion’s arrival had saved her then, or so she believed.

Trevallion closed the stable door, putting the hasp in place. He headed for the International. There were a few people sitting in the dining room but he knew none of them. He went up to Grita’s room. There was no reply when he knocked.

He swore softly. Now was when he missed Teale. Had Teale been with her he would not have worried. Now he was worried.

Where was Waggoner?

Trevallion returned to the street searching up one side and down the other. He stopped in all the saloons, and Waggoner was in none of them. He returned to the stable; the saddle horse was still there, waiting for its rider.

When he came to the bakery Trevallion went inside. From there he could watch the street, the doors of some shops. Ledbetter was there, talking to Melissa. “Did you ever see Bill Stewart?” he asked. “I don’t know what he’s got in mind but he’s been talking to a few of the men whom he respects. He has something for which he needs our support.”

“Not today,” Trevallion said, “any day but today.”

Ledbetter glanced around at him. “Trouble?”

Trevallion was watching the street. Trouble, of course, but his trouble. At the lift of a hand or a single word he could have help, but how would he feel if Ledbetter got killed? And there would be killing today. He could feel it.

Virginia City was going about its business, mining, buying, selling, drinking, eating, smelting ore, planning law suits. The problem was his own, not Ledbetter’s, not Melissa’s, or even Virginia City’s.

“I’ll handle it,” he said.

He had scarcely touched the coffee when he lunged to his feet and went out the door fast. The
theater,
of course! What was the matter with him? Waggoner would be at the theater.

It was still some time before the theater opened, but Trevallion remembered Margrita’s habit of arriving before everyone else. After all, it was her company and she wished to see everything was made ready. Unfortunately, if Waggoner had been watching her he would know that was his perfect opportunity to strike.

Trevallion hurried toward the theater. Ledbetter stood up, staring after him. “Now what the hell?” he wondered.

“Jim?” Melissa said. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

He turned to look at her, wondering at the tone of her voice. “He said he could handle it. He knows I’m ready.” He backed up a step and sat down, looking again at Melissa. “You sounded worried there for a minute,” he commented mildly.

“I was, Jim. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter much. There’s nobody who’d notice. A man like me, he doesn’t leave much space when he dies.”

“I’d miss you, Jim.”

Startled, he looked up. “You? Miss me?”

“Very much, Jim. I’d miss you more than anything.”

He looked at her again. “Well, I’ll be damned. You mean that, don’t you?”

“With all my heart.” She paused. “I’ve been an awful fool, Jim. It took Trevallion to make me realize.”

There was a long silence, then Jim Ledbetter said, “And he’s goin’ out there alone, against God knows what.”

“He’s always been alone. Maybe he will always be alone.”

“No,” Ledbetter said after a minute, “I don’t think so. He’s found his woman.”

“I don’t know her, Jim. Is she all right for him?”

“She is, I think. Maybe she’s the only woman alive who would be.”

“Why, Jim? Why her?”

“She’s been there,” Ledbetter said, “since they were tykes. It’s her, all right. It’s her because she’s the only person who ever really needed him. That’s the secret of it, Lissy, to be needed.”

“But she has everything.”

“No, Lissy. She’s an empty woman, and he’s that kind of man. Since they were youngsters, I think, there’s been a memory of something lost. Now they’ve found it.”

T
HE EVENING SUN was leaving blood in the sky, the shadows were reaching out to reclaim what they had lost at daybreak, and the red faded to rose and pink. It was an hour and a half to show time when Grita unlocked the side door of the theater. The janitor was long since gone, but he had done well. She glanced around, making a quick inspection, walking down the aisles and checking under some of the seats. He was a good man, that janitor, despite the fact that he liked his little nip now and again.

The house was already a sell-out. The people of Virginia City loved their theater, which amused her, for the life they were actually living was so much more exciting and dramatic than any play.

She thought of Trevallion with sudden longing, remembering him as he had been when they were entombed, his calm acceptance of the situation and then the efforts to do something about it. No time wasted in recrimination. His strength had fed her strength.

She walked down the aisle and crossed to the left, mounting three steps to pass through the curtain to the backstage area. She turned to rearrange the curtains a bit, and she caught a glimpse of something on the floor. She pushed the curtain back for more light. It was a tiny bit of horse manure and hay.

That janitor! Just wait—She had let the curtain fall and had taken three steps toward her dressing room when she felt a stab of fear.

She opened the door and stepped in, putting her coat over the back of a chair. Suppose somebody had come in afterward? But who?

Somebody who had been in a stable. But none of her people had been riding today, that she knew. So if someone had been here, it was some outsider.

Within the great barnlike theater all was deathly still. The only sounds discernible here were the pound of the stamps. No sounds of passing teams, no voices. It had to be that way, or outside sounds would drown what was being said onstage.

She had to get out. She had to get out now. Somebody had been here, and might still be here.

Leave the coat. Leave her purse. But her gun was in that purse!

Nevertheless, leave it. If she showed any indication of leaving he would come at once.

Come? From where? The closet. If he was here, he had to be in the closet. If she started to run in this dress and her high-heeled shoes he would overtake her in a half-dozen steps.

There was a chair. It was flimsy, but if she could get it propped under the knob—But to do that she had to move deeper into the room, up close to the door itself.

She could, of course, just walk out of the room. But it was a long way to an outside door and she had locked it on entering. She could never do it. The chair under the knob, lock him in the dressing room and then go for help. But suppose there was nobody there? What of it? People might say she was seeing shadows, but what if they did?

Pulling off a long glove, she stepped into the room, crossed to the closet door and taking the chair by the back, lifted it over and started to thrust it under the knob. And then the door burst outward and he was there—Waggoner.

“Cute,” he said. “Pretty damn cute.” He was even larger than she had remembered. He smelled of stale sweat and unwashed clothing. “How’d you know I was here?”

Fear was the last thing she must show. “Because you’re filthy,” she said quietly, “you left some horse manure back there. Nobody would be coming here right from the stables.”

He chuckled. “Sly,” he said, “pretty durned sly!”

The dressing room was small. No matter which way she turned he was within arm’s reach of her. She had put her hat on the table. If only she could reach one of the hatpins! But he was going to give her no chance, none at all.

“Heard you lock the door,” he said, “mighty nice of you. Gives me more time. Not that we haven’t got aplenty.” His smile showed big yellow teeth. “I been watchin’ this place. Them other actors never come much more than thirty minutes afore curtain time. Thirty to forty. So I got you all to myself for nigh onto an hour.”

“If I were you,” she replied coolly, “I would leave now, while you still can. The men in this town will hang you for what you’ve already done.”

“They won’t hang me. I done pretty much what I wanted all my life.” He put his big hands on his hips, staring insolently. “I’m goin’ to do what I want with you, right here, right now.”

Her derringer was in her purse, behind her on the table. If she turned her back on him…She dared not do that, nor to reach back. She must wait; maybe if he came toward her a step back would seem natural. If she could just get her hand on that purse.

Suddenly, completely without warning, he slapped her. It was like being hit with a club, and it knocked her sprawling. Before she could move, he kicked her. She just barely managed to turn her hip to catch the force of the kick and protect her stomach. It was not playful, but brutally hard.

Then he reached down and grabbed her by the shoulder. Long ago she had been taught a little about defending herself, and she knew better than to pull back. Instead, she caught his sleeve and jerked him toward her.

The action was totally unexpected, and he fell, sprawling. Like a cat she was on her feet. She was angry now. She knew she could not outrun him, so she pushed the chair into him, and as he was struggling to get up from it, she grabbed for her purse.