Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (37 page)

In the morning he awakened and went down into the hole. With cool detachment he studied the layout, studied the ore samples, and knew he had to face it. The ore looked good, but unless there was a sudden breakthrough into something better, this was not going to make him rich. And suddenly he wanted to be rich. He wanted very much to be rich, at least a little bit rich.

His gut feeling told him he was in good ground. It told him there was rich ore somewhere down below, but he did not have it now, when he needed it.

He would need money, a lot of money. That was why the first discoverers had sold out, because these were claims that demanded development. A prospector likes to
find,
but he is rarely the man to develop a mine, and he rarely has the money needed.

So what then? Keep the boys working as long as he could, hoping for a break. And to go to work himself, somewhere where he could
earn
some money.

He did not want to go underground again, but he would have to.

Waggoner? What about Waggoner while he was underground? Hadn’t somebody said two men had just joined him?

Maybe there were three of them in town now.

And that gun he had found so long ago, a gun that might have been lost by one of the killers, the one he still had, with the name
A.X. Elder
.

Who was A.X. Elder?

Chapter 42

A
T DAYBREAK TREVALLION was climbing over the rock shot down by the previous round, and checking the face of the drift. The round had, as usual, extended the tunnel by another three feet, but the vein looked no better.

Using planks laid end-to-end as a runway for his wheelbarrow, he mucked out the rock, clearing the approach to the face. It was time to lay some track and do away with the wheelbarrow, but track cost money.

As he worked he considered his situation. He always thought better while working, walking, or riding. Somehow physical activity was conducive to thinking, at least if the activity called for no particular attention.

Today was Sunday, and he was alone. Some of the mines and mills worked Sundays, too, but he never had, although occasionally he puttered around as he was now doing. A quiet day would give him time to plan. For weeks he had been making resolutions, telling himself what he must do and should do, but other things had interfered. It was those interferences, no matter what they were, that he must push aside. They were time-wasters.

Thus far he had been pushing his tunnel back into the mountain, but with few exceptions the best ore on the Comstock had been found at the deeper levels. To sink a shaft would cost money.

So far the little he had made placering along with the few shipments of ore had been sufficient for his needs. He was a man of simple tastes and required little, but unless he intended to let his years waste away, he had better get on with it.

He could borrow money. He was a hard worker, a steady man with a good reputation in the mines, and he knew the money would be available, but it was not the way he wanted it. He would be beholden to no man. Keep clear of debt, his father had warned him when he was very small. Once you are in debt, his father advised,you are carrying another man’s weight,and it will be him who sits in the saddle and his hands on the reins.

He sorted the rock he had shot down and put the best-looking stuff to one side. When he had enough, he’d mill the lot. It would not come to much, but it would be walking-around money, anyway.

He swore suddenly, bitterly. If he only had that five hundred dollars Waggoner had stolen! Of course, he could prove nothing, and if he hunted him down and killed him, he would be no better off.

As he worked, he considered his situation and what might be done. There were jobs enough, but at four dollars a day; even the six he might get as shift-boss would not amount to very much. He could do better by himself.

He could return to one of his claims but that meant leaving Virginia City, and he was reluctant to be away from town just now.

He had gone into the mine without breakfast, but now he came up, stirred up the fire, and sliced bacon into the pan. He had coffee on when there was a rap on the door. He took his gun from its holster, which hung over a chair back, and slid the six-shooter behind his belt.

Standing to one side of the door he asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Tap.”

He opened the door and Tap stepped in. “Brisk out yonder,” he commented. Then he glanced at him. “Heard the news?”

Without waiting for a reply, Tapley said, “Sam Brown’s dead. He got all charged up, figured he had to show his hand since Stewart made light of him, so he threatened Van Slyke.”

“Van Slyke killed him?”

“Got him a shotgun and rode down the road and waited for him. Blew him right out of the saddle.”

“I’ll be damned! Van Slyke? The least likely man in camp, I’d say. Well, you never can tell.”

“Bill Stewart kind of showed him up,” Tap said. “Once that happens a man had better run, because everybody will be after him. The trouble with a reputation is that you have to back it up, and once you slip, you’ve had it.”

“Had breakfast?”

“No, and that bacon smells almighty good.” Tap glanced at him. “You’re in your diggin’ clothes.”

“I’ve been down in the hole. Worked a little. I’m going to sink a shaft. Going down three or four hundred feet.”

“Never work on Sunday myself,” Tapley said, “least it’s an emergency.” He paused. “Reason I came by is that I saw Waggoner down on the street with two strangers. Hard cases if I ever saw them.”

“So?”

“Trev, those men were Bald Knobbers. At least one of them was. Another’s an Arkansawyer. Spotted him right off because he’s from my neck of the woods. I figured you ought to know.”

“Thanks.”

Trevallion served the bacon, some toast, and put the molasses jug on the table. “How are things at the mill?”

Tapley shrugged. “I like workin’ for you better. If you’re going to sink a shaft, maybe you’d need a good man.”

“I can use you, but I don’t know how long the money will last. Maybe you’d be better off sticking to a steady job.”

“Maybe, but I like workin’ for you.” He paused. “You an’ Miss Redaway gettin’ acquainted? Seen you ride into town together.”

“We knew each other long ago,” Trevallion replied, and then at Tapley’s surprised look he explained, telling the story from the beginning.

Christian Tapley swore softly. “It do beat all! I heard there’d been some trouble back down the line.” He glanced at him quickly. “Then, did you kill Skinner?”

“I did.”

“I’ll be damned. And you figure Waggoner is one of them?” He was silent for several minutes, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. “You know, Trev, I seen it happen before. There’s some crimes that are never forgotten. For some reason they scar ever’body they touch. This is one of them.

“All those years, and then Rory dead, and Skinner. You say your pa killed two of them?”

“He did.”

“And you figure there’s five left?”

“Four or five.”

“You better figure on five, Trev. If you only count to four an’ quit that could be fatal. That fifth man—”

“I’m figuring on five, with or without the one who started it all.”

“You think you know who it was?”

“I think it was that man with the pale eyes, the one who was curious about pa’s gold. He looked like the man who shot Grita’s father. I’d have sworn it was him. Yet I did not see his face.”

“Then it could be anybody, anybody at all.” Tapley started to fill his cup, then stopped, coffeepot in hand. “Waggoner’s been around awhile. He isn’t workin’, but he has money. Where’s he get it? What’s he livin’ on?”

He finished pouring the coffee. “Trev, he tried to kill you up in Six Mile or wherever you were. At least, you figured it was him. Well, why’d he try to kill you? Because he knew who you were! He spotted you. He remembered you.”

“He couldn’t have. I was only a boy.”

“Why else would he take a shot at you? And you said somebody rigged a missed-hole for you. If it ain’t him, it’s somebody else. You got any other enemies around?”

“None that I know of.”

“You staked out that claim up there next to the Solomon. Ol’ Hesketh couldn’t have been too happy about that.”

“That was after. And I don’t know Hesketh. I’ve never even seen the man, not to know who he is.”

Tapley finished his coffee and got up. “I’ll be around come morning to start work. You take care, you hear? That Waggoner’s a mean, tough man.”

Christian Tapley walked down the slope frowning. Suddenly, on the spur of the moment, he turned toward the International. He was walking across the lobby when he saw Teale watching him from the door of the billiard room. Turning he crossed to him. “Want to set a minute? We’ve got talkin’ to do.”

When they were seated, Tap said, “Supposin’ you just listen an’ let me talk a bit? There’s something you should know.”

Teale did not reply, he simply waited. Tapley gestured to indicate the upper floors. “You’re watchin’ over Miss Redaway. You let her ride off by herself.”

“She wanted to ride alone. She said she wanted to think.”

Tapley told about her riding up the canyon. “Trevallion rode up after her, and when he came up to her she was cornered by this here Waggoner. He came up just in time to know there’d been hard words betwixt ’em without him hearin’ anything. Waggoner seemed almighty put out when Trevallion showed up, but after a few words, he rode off. Trev rode back to town with her.”

Tapley explained his feelings about Waggoner, and repeated the story Trevallion had told him. Teale held up a hand. “I know the story,” he said.

He was thinking back, remembering other things. He got up. “There’s no show tonight. Tapley, could you stay here, take over for me until about tomorrow afternoon?”

“I’ve promised Trev to lend a hand over there.”

“One more day won’t matter. I got things to do. You take care of her, you hear?”

“I hear.”

Jacob Teale went to the stable and saddled his horse. He was going to do something he had meant to do before this, and should have done. He had been remiss. Only, Margrita Redaway had needed him.

He was leading his horse from the stable when he saw Langford Peel across the street, watching him. Peel was smoking a cigar, and when he saw Jacob had seen him, Peel strolled across the street. “Ridin’ out?”

“A ways.”

“Stage trail?”

“Could be.”

“Hear there was some shootin’ out yonder the other night.”

“A mite.”

“That explains the body, then.”

Teale was quiet for a moment and then he said, “I fired, but I had nothing certain to shoot at and I didn’t kill anybody.”

“Didn’t say you did. Just figured you might want to know about the body they found alongside the trail out there. He was lying on his face in the dust, and he’d been shot twice, in the back.”

“Anybody we know?”

“Frisco man, runner for a dive down there, sneak-thief, whatever. He was riding one of the express ponies. Horse showed up at his stable, and the hostler made inquiries. Whoever the dead man was, he made a fast ride from Frisco to Virginia City, switching horses often.” Peel dusted ash from his cigar. “He didn’t know he was riding to his own death.”

“Thanks, Peel.”

Peel touched his hat with a finger. “Professional courtesy, Mr. Teale, simply professional courtesy!”

J
ACOB TEALE CAMPED in the woods that night and was on the ground shortly after daybreak. The sign was several days old, but except for the trail it was an area where few people came. He found where two riders had waited, one of whom had smoked many cigarettes, obviously nervous.

They were the men he had shot at from the stage-top, for the position was the same, as he expected. But then one man had murdered the other. Why? In a fit of rage, when the holdup failed? But why? It had not been the one man’s fault, unless—

That horse had leaped into the road. That might be it. But they had waited calmly. It had been the nervous man who was shot, not the other. And from the tracks, the other man had ridden swiftly away.

Teale picked up the trail and followed it across a couple of shortcuts. The man knew the country. A big man, riding a big horse. He would remember the tracks.

Jacob Teale was quite sure he knew who the strange rider had been. What he did not know was why he had been there to attempt a holdup, or why the other man had been killed.

But he had a pretty good idea.

He rode back to town and relieved Tapley, thanking him. Tap asked no questions, and Teale sat down to think and to wait for Miss Redaway to come down the stairs.

The night the stage had come in, Teale had dropped off the stage and stood back among the crowd. He had seen Waggoner, the man who hurried until he reached the stage and then no longer hurried. To see who had shot at him?

Waggoner was not a road-agent, so why was he acting as one on that night? Was he there to hold up the stage or to kill someone?

Margrita Redaway came down the stairs, and Jacob Teale stood up and moved toward her.

“How do you do, Mr. Teale? A lovely evening, is it not?”

“It is, ma’am. Shall we go?”

Chapter 43

W
ITH TAPLEY WORKING with him Trevallion’s drilling went much faster. With one man holding the drill while the other struck with the eight-pound double-jack, the drilling was easier, even allowing for time to clean out the holes. When they paused to “take five,” Tapley commented, “You’re a good hand with that sledge. Ever get into one of the contests?”

“A time or two. I used to box some in the celebrations, too. Or do some Cornish-style wrestling. I don’t know who started it, but every Fourth of July there was always a contest going. But I preferred the boxing.”

“You win?”

“Uh-huh, here and there.” He hefted the sledge. “Swinging this is good for the punch, and I was on the end of one of these from the time I could lift one. The same thing with a muck-stick—shovel, to you.”

“Yeah, I’m no miner. Worked at it here and there, but I like it up on top. I’ve timbered, though, and laid a lot of track.”