Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (43 page)

“Some of those people,” Trevallion commented, “planned to return and pick up their wagons.”

Manfred shrugged. “So? He didn’t care. He looted them and sold whatever he got from their wagons, sold it later, in California.”

“And that man was Albert Hesketh?” Margrita suggested.

“It was.”

“Has he seen you now, here?”

“He may have. Of course, I am older now and I’ve changed a lot.” He paused. “That was over three hundred dollars he took from me. God knows how much he got from others, or other wagons.”

“There’s Eilley Bowers,” Margrita said. “I must speak to her. Will you excuse me?”

Clyde went with her and Manfred stood alone with Trevallion, who said, “Odd, how we were so close then and never met. But then, how many people on a wagon train ever know the others? A few, maybe, and that’s all.”

“What I told you wasn’t all,” Manfred said.

“No?”

“He caught me again. He made me go with him into the desert and loot wagons. Once I helped him bury a man who’d been shot in the back. When we picked him up his body was still warm, and it was at night. That man had been killed within the hour.”

“By Hesketh?”

“Who else? Nobody was around, he took me right to that wagon. Knew right where it was.”

“What about you?”

“He shot me one evening, just casually turned and shot me. The bullet knocked me out and cut my scalp very badly. I was all blood and he believed me dead, so he just rolled me over into a dry wash and caved the bank over me.

“It was night and he did not see that part of my face was uncovered. When I became conscious I crawled out and got away to California, picked up by a wagonload of actors, as a matter of fact.”

Laughter and the clink of glasses came across the room. “He killed Crockett,” Manfred added, “although I am sure it cannot be proved.

“One thing we must remember. Albert Hesketh is a very fastidious man. He likes every package neatly done up with all the loose ends cut away.”

Manfred glanced from Margrita, standing across the room, to Trevallion. “And we three? We are loose ends.”

Chapter 49

T
REVALLION SAT OVER a cup of coffee in the bakery with Jim Ledbetter. “Like old times,” Ledbetter said.

Trevallion gestured toward the town outside. “It’s changed. It’s a city now, where it used to be just a bunch of squatters on a barren mountainside, living in the brush like a bunch of jackrabbits.”

Melissa came to the table. “Mind if I sit down?” She put her cup down, and then joined them. “I’m sorry about Will. He was a good man.”

“He was that,” Ledbetter agreed. “Too good.”

The coffee was hot and it tasted good. Trevallion put his cup down and thought of Margrita, useless thoughts for him. Now, as soon as she took control of the Solomon, she would be a wealthy woman, and a wealthy and beautiful young woman wouldn’t want a man from the mining camps.

It was time to drift, time to go off down the trail talking to himself. It was deep enough.

He spoke the words aloud, without thinking. When a miner said it was deep enough it meant he was pulling his stakes.

“You leaving?” Ledbetter said.

“A few loose ends,” he said, and then recalled Manfred’s comment.

The door shoved opened, slamming back hard. A man stood in the doorway, swaying a little. His clothes were muddy as though he had fallen,and he was very drunk. It was Alfie.

Melissa stood up quickly. He stared at her, swaying. “Good ol’ ’Lissy! ’Lissy, I’m broke. I need some money. I—”

“I am sorry. I have nothing for you.”

The smile left his face. “What you mean you got nothin’ for me? Now you listen here!”

“Alfie,” Melissa spoke quietly, but with dignity, “I must ask you to leave.”

He stared at her. “You don’t tell me to leave. You don’t—”

“Leave, Alfie, and don’t come back. You took all the money I had and left me sick in bed. Go away.”

He started forward but suddenly Ledbetter stood between them. “The lady said you were to go. Now go or I’ll give you a horsewhipping!”

Alfie stared at them, sullen with anger. “I’ll go, damn you! But you ain’t so much, you—”

Jim Ledbetter was a mild man, but his fists were not. Jim Ledbetter knocked him down,and then, taking Alfie by the collar, he dragged him to the door and put him outside, closing the door as he returned.

“Thank you, Jim,” Melissa said.

“That’s all right, ma’am.”

A
T THE BUCKET of Blood Saloon Mousel thrust his hand into his coat pocket, hoping to find the price of a beer. His hand encountered a piece of paper, the corner of an envelope, actually. In it were tucked two gold eagles and on it was written,
“You are going to shoot him, anyway. Why not now?”

He stared at it, blinking slowly. Then he stepped to the bar. The bartender, his mouth open to refuse, saw the gold piece and drew the beer.

Mousel gulped some of the beer. Somebody was using him. Well, he’d be damned if…but, why not? He
was
going to, he had come to town with that intent, so why not?

Forty dollars was not much but it was more than he had coming at the Solomon.

Why not? And why not now?

The pistol he had now was a Remington Navy. It was a good pistol, too. He drank more of the beer. He should shoot her, too. She was the one. Got real uppity, didn’t she? Well, he’d show—

The door swung back and Alfie came in. Mousel had the beer in his left hand but as their eyes met, Mousel reached for the Remington in his waistband and drew it. He glimpsed the look of startled horror on Alfie’s face, and Alfie’s hand came up, thrusting toward him, palm out.

Mousel fired.

Men turned from the bar, startled. Mousel was gripping the Remington; Alfie was dead on the floor, his hands empty.

A man bent over him, then he straightened up slowly, rubbing his hands down the front of his pants. “He’s dead, all right,” the man spoke quietly but sternly, “and he’s unarmed. He has no gun.”

Mousel’s chin began to tremble. All eyes were on him. “Now, look here!” he protested. “This man—”

He turned and stumbled toward the door, only as he opened it, a man was coming in. A man wearing a badge.

“It’s murder,” one man said, “shot an unarmed man.”

Mousel’s flabby cheeks trembled and his eyes watered. “It ain’t like that!” he protested. “He…that man…well…” The words trailed off. “He stole my woman,” he managed at last.

Trevallion stood in the door. “That’s not true,” he said, speaking to the officer. “I was there, Hank, and so was Jim Ledbetter. The lady to whom he refers hired a mule from Ledbetter and came in with one of his caravans. I was riding in the same bunch. The dead man was nowhere around when the lady left Placerville.”

Searching Mousel for a weapon, Hank found the corner of the envelope, the other gold piece and the change. “Paid for it? Forty bucks? You bought yourself a noose for forty dollars?”

Hank turned to Trevallion. “Did you ever see Bill Stewart? He’s been asking for you.”

“I’ll look him up.” He was standing near Hank and he spoke softly. “Looks like an open and shut case. He shot an unarmed man. All this talk about a woman, that doesn’t have to be mentioned, does it?”

Hank shrugged. “Not so far’s I’m concerned.”

“Have you seen Tapley?”

Hank shook his head. “Not this evenin’. You want him?”

“I do.”

“I’ll send him along if I see him, but you see Bill, it’s important—to all of us.”

“Hank? Can I see that note? The one you found in Mousel’s pocket?”

Hank sowed it to him. “Know the writin’?”

“No, no, I don’t.”

Hank turned to Mousel. “Who gave you this?”

Mousel’s flabby cheeks were sagging, his eyes were wide and frightened. “It was in…in my pocket. I jus’ found it there.”

“You’re a liar,” Hank said contemptuously.

“He may not be,” Trevallion said. “He may be telling the truth. I just think he killed the wrong man.”

He went back to the hotel, walking with awareness. Will Crockett was dead, murdered. Alfie was dead, too, but who would care about Alfie? Nobody wanted Alfie dead. At the worst he was merely a nuisance. He had gambled a little, cheated a little, lived off women. Nobody cared enough to want him dead. Whoever had slipped that note into Mousel’s pocket, or had it slipped there, had believed Mousel would kill somebody else.

Him
. Mousel had it in for him, too, and whoever had slipped that note and the money to Mousel had thought he would kill Trevallion.

Stewart was not in his office, and Trevallion returned to his mine. Tapley was already at work, and there were three men with him. Two were working in the new drift, drilling holes for a round of shots. Trevallion was restless and worried, and in no mood for work.

Back in the cabin he hung his gun-belt over a chairback and heated some water for shaving.

He had it to do. Waggoner and the other two had tried to kill him, and he knew where Waggoner holed up. He should find him, now. He had no desire to spend the rest of his life expecting a bullet in the back or being on guard every second.

He lathered his face, thinking about it and the possible reaction if he hunted them down and shot it out.

Grita? How would she feel? What would her reaction be?

He stropped his razor, tested the edge, and began to shave. He wanted no killing. He hated no man, not even the killer of Will Crockett, although the man should be punished.

Suddenly he thought of the man he had found in Grita’s rooms. Could that have been Hesketh? And if so, what was he doing there? Looking for the shares?

He stropped the razor for a fresh edge, lathered his chin again. That could have been Hesketh, he had looked like a businessman. Carefully dressed, freshly shaven—odd eyes, very piercing.

He paused, razor poised; those eyes, where had he seen them before? Or had he? He rinsed his razor, wiped it dry, his mind empty, receptive, waiting.

Footsteps sounded outside, then a brief rap on the door. Putting down the razor, Trevallion turned to face the door, the gun-butt within inches of his right hand. “Come in,” he said.

Manfred stepped in. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Sit down. I was just finishing.”

“I’ve been thinking about Hesketh. There’s no way we can get at him. Legally, I mean. I know he looted those wagons and it wouldn’t sound good. Like you pointed out, many of those people planned to go back for their belongings. We all knew that and they were left alone. The fact that he looted wagons that were seemingly abandoned, there’s nothing we can do about that.

“As for killing—and I’m dead sure he killed at least two men who weren’t dead and might have been saved…there’s nothing anybody can prove. I know what I know, but a good lawyer would tear that evidence to shreds. We’d get nowhere.

“Nor is there any evidence he killed Crockett. He’s been involved in some shady dealings and has taken advantage of people, but that’s about all, and you can’t arrest a man for that.”

Trevallion placed the razor in its case and closed it, then tossed the pan of water out the door. It would help to keep down the dust at the approach to the tunnel.

“Have you talked to Grita?” he asked.

Manfred shook his head. “I’m worried,” he admitted. “Albert Hesketh is dangerous. He’s like a sidewinder, vicious, poisonous, and always poised to strike. By now he probably knows that Grita inherited everything from Will Crockett. That leaves her in possession when she wishes to take over. She can throw him off the premises, and she should. He’ll steal her blind, otherwise.”

“And if something should happen to her, he will be left in possession until her heirs can decide what to do.”

“Nothing will happen to her,” he spoke positively. Then he turned sharply. “Who is with her now?”

“Clyde. But Teale is in the lobby.”

Trevallion was thinking as he put on his shirt. Word would have gotten around and by now Hesketh would know. Furthermore, he would be moving to change the situation. Which meant both Grita and himself were targets of the first opportunity; of course, that had been his position for some time.

“Manfred,” he said slowly, “you’re in this of your own choice, so go back to the hotel and stay close to Grita. He will surely try to kill her, not he himself, but somebody sent by him.”

“I’ll go.” Manfred got up. “And you?”

“I’ll be along,” he said, “but be careful.”

“I shall,” Manfred said. “Remember, I know the man. He hasn’t an iota of mercy in him. He is absolutely cold. He has no respect for human life or anything that stands in his way.”

“What will he do if he’s backed into a corner? As he is now?”

“He will fight, I think, in his own way. The man’s uncommonly shrewd.”

When Manfred had gone, Trevallion buckled on his gun-belt. Uncommonly shrewd? No. Possibly not shrewd at all. Perhaps only a man who moved into whatever opening appeared, taking every advantage. Often the man appears shrewd who is only ruthless and without scruples.

The day was pleasantly warm. Trevallion walked outside and looked down the street toward the main part of town and the International. He could see people along the streets, miners going to work, and huge wagons hauling ore from the mines to the mills. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves on some coarse brush close by. The sky was blue with only a few remote clouds.

Had all his days led but to this one? In the mine behind him men worked, digging out ore for him. Somewhere a tin-panny pianolike sound came from the town below. What awaited him down there, he did not know, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that he faced some sort of a culmination.

He remembered the look on Waggoner’s face when he had interrupted him in his meeting with Margrita. There was some brutal, indomitable force in the man, a man who could envision no defeat, no failure.

Turning, Trevallion looked again at the mine, at the cabin. Then he started down the slope. He went first to the International.

Teale was in the lobby, and he arose from his chair and crossed the room to intercept him.