Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (7 page)

“Finish up,” Trevallion said, “Jim’s ready to move out.”

They went to the mules, and the Arkansawyer thrust out a bony hand. “Name’s Tapley, Mr. Trevallion. Christian Tapley. Folks call me Tap.”

“They call me Trevallion, no mister. This is Melissa Turney.”

“I reckon.”

Mounting up, Ledbetter took off at a good pace, and glancing back, Trevallion saw Tapley fall in at the rear. He had known the kind before. Probably Tap had grown up in a backwoods cabin listening to gospel-shouting preachers. A lean, stoop-shouldered man who had lived his life along the ragged edge of poverty, asking nothing of God or man but freedom to make his own way. He would always be where he was most needed because he was that kind of man, and he could probably shoot the head off a turkey at two hundred yards with that old rifle.

Ledbetter pushed into the first gap in the line, despite the cursing of those who followed. Coolly, he blocked the way until all his train were on the trail, then, oblivious to the curses, waved at them and rode on to the head of the line.

Several times in the next few hours Trevallion saw men stumble and fall, get clumsily to their feet, and keep on. A broken-down wagon was rudely shoved out of the way and left hanging over the lip of the cliff, despite the loud complaints of the teamster.

A ragged returner shouted angrily at them. “You’re wastin’ your time! Nothin’ up there but rocks an’ wind! Everything worth havin’ has already been taken!”

Nobody paid any attention and he glowered at them, muttering. Then he shouted, “You’re a pack o’ fools! I
been
there!”

A more sober-seeming man agreed, pausing in his downhill trek. “He’s right, you know. It’s a cold, windy, altogether miserable place. Nothing decent to eat and no shelter unless you build for yourself.”

Other passersby merely stared sullenly and continued their way down the slope, heading back for the placer streams of the California Mother Lode.

Melissa turned in her saddle. “Mr. Trevallion? What is it really like?”

The air was growing colder, the sky was bleak. It was coming on to snow. “Probably much like they say,” he commented, at last. “When I was there, no Virginia City existed and nobody had heard of a Comstock Lode, if there is such a thing. There were some raw, ragged hills, some sagebrush, stunted cedar, and winds that didn’t blow dust, they blew
rocks
!

“If it’s like other such places we’ll have to build places for ourselves, or hire somebody to build. I’m not talking about houses, just shelters, anything away from the wind.”

He thought back to that remembered time when they had come out of the Forty-Mile into the minor paradise of the Carson River. One of the older men had tried a pan in one of the small streams that came down from the mountains to flow into the Carson. He found gold.

The others laughed at him. “That little bit? Throw it away! That’s
nothing!
Just wait until we get to California!”

“But this here’s gold!” the man protested. “My very first pan!”

“Forget it! Ain’t more’n a couple of dollars there, an’ in California your pan would be covered with it! Not just those few flakes!”

That was what they believed, that was the dream that led them on.

His father had said nothing, but he was the only miner among them. He knew little about gold, but he knew something of ores and how they occurred. He looked up at the small cluster of mountains from which the gold had to come. “Maybe if California doesn’t pan out we will come back here.”

At that time he had no idea that his father would never live to see California and that, having lost his mother, he was soon to lose his father to the same men.

Chapter 7

T
REVALLION HUNCHED HIS shoulders against the increasing chill. A slow rain began that turned almost at once to snow, and the icy trail grew more icy still. Men slipped on the steep path, scrambling up only to fall again. The mules, wise in the ways of trails, plodded on, ignoring the cursing of the men around them. At the trail’s end there would be feed, and there would be water to drink, and they walked for that.

Trevallion tugged his hat brim lower and watched the girl ahead. She was taking it well, with no words of complaint. He had known few women well, but he could read human sign as well as that found on trails, and this girl had iron in her system which, in a few years, would turn to steel. She was strong and would grow stronger, yet he believed he had detected a fatal flaw that he had discovered in women before this.

There were women with a penchant for picking up stray cats and dogs, which was all very well. There were others who had the same tendency to pick up superficially attractive but empty men. Judging by Alfie, Melissa might be such a one.

His thoughts reverted to his own situation. The blond man who had passed them, forging on ahead, had recognized him, but who was he?

Not one of the men he still sought, he was too young, not much older than Trevallion himself.

Yet they would be coming here. The chances that any of them were still together was slight, but thieves and murderers were attracted to the boom camps, and it was a certainty one or more of them would come to the Comstock.

Riding along hour after hour, with nothing to think of but the trail, gave a man time to consider, and lately he had been doing a lot of thinking. Possibly it was because he was growing older, and perhaps wiser, but he had detected a slackening of purpose in himself and it angered him.

For years the horror of what he had seen and heard that night had obsessed him. The murderers had gotten off scot-free and then had killed his father. There had been no convenient law to pursue and punish. Even before his father’s death, his father had become a changed man, from a quiet but easygoing man he had become a sullen, morose shadow of himself.

As for himself, there had been years when he had awakened, crying out in fear, the horror of his mother’s last hour indelibly imprinted on his mind.

Trevallion’s thoughts turned to the night he saw a man playing cards, and it was a face he remembered.

To the bartender he spoke casually. “Who is he? The one in the blue-checked shirt?”

“Drifter, name of Rory. I’ve seen him around.” The bartender poured the beer Trevallion ordered. “I’d steer clear of him. He’s a bad one…cheats, I think. One of these days somebody will catch him at it.”

There was no doubt. A little older, a little harder, but a face he remembered. Trevallion finished his beer, then crossed the room, and when there was an opening, sat in the game.

At Trevallion’s deal Rory pushed the cards toward him and palmed one or more cards in the process. The man beside Trevallion made an involuntary start, so he must also have seen it, but Trevallion said nothing. It would happen again.

When it was Rory’s deal again, the man swept in the cards and gathered them up, and Trevallion said, “What ever became of Skinner?”

Carefully, Rory shuffled the cards into a packet and said, “Skinner? I don’t know any Skinner.”

“Thought you might have,” Trevallion said, “back in Missouri.”

Rory said nothing. He put down the cards and got out a cigar. “Everybody’s been in Missouri,” he said finally.

“You’re right. Some of them come west in wagons, starting from there, only some of them never get started.”

Rory lit the cigar and took up the cards. “You talkin’ or playin’ cards?”

“Just thought you might remember Skinner,” Trevallion said.

Rory rolled his cigar into the corner of his mouth and began to deal.

They played silently, yet Rory kept glancing at him, growing increasingly nervous. Trevallion met his eyes and smiled and Rory’s jaw set; he started to speak, then changed his mind and ordered a drink.

A man seated near him put down his cards and quietly withdrew from the game.

Rory was winning and the winning seemed to give him confidence. His staring at Trevallion grew belligerent, but Trevallion seemed unaware. Again it was Rory’s turn to deal, and as he picked up the cards, Trevallion commented, “That was an ugly night.”

Rory’s hands dropped to the table. His right hand slid back toward the edge of the table.

Trevallion gestured toward the deck. “Come on, man, deal!”

Rory took up the cards and dealt them, avoiding Trevallion’s eyes. They played the hand in silence and then another. Rory won several small pots and had another drink. He stared at Trevallion, frowning a little. Finally he said, “Do I know you?”

Trevallion shrugged. “You’ve never seen me before tonight.”

Rory dropped his hands to the discards and gave them a casual thrust toward Trevallion.

Trevallion said, “But I’ve seen you before. One night back in Missouri—
what’s that in your left hand, Rory?
”

Rory went for his gun, and Trevallion shot him.

His left hand opened slowly and dropped two slightly crimped cards on the table.

Rory’s eyes were on Trevallion’s with sudden attention. The hand that had reached the gun in his waistband fell away into his lap. There was a growing red stain on his shirt front. Men pulled slowly back from the table.

“You…you…” Rory’s lips struggled for the words that would not come.

“I was a boy then, Rory, but I was there. I saw it all.”

There was dead silence in the room. Rory started to rise then slumped back in his chair.

“You saw it,” Trevallion said, “he was cheating.”

“I seen it before!” The speaker was the man who quit the game. “I saw him steal some cards from the discards!”

“But,” a portly man with a heavy gold watch chain interrupted, “there was something else. What was all that talk?”

Trevallion’s eyes were cold. “A private matter,” he said.

He holstered his pistol, picked up the money from beside his cards, and walked from the room.

That had been three years ago.

He was jolted from his reverie by Ledbetter. “We’ll spend the night at Strawberry. I got my own corner there if somebody hasn’t beat me to it.”

It was almost dark when they came up to Strawberry, and the fresh snow had already been churned into slush. From the building there was a sound of loud voices and a rattle of dishes.

Ledbetter rode by and up into the trees on the slope. Not more than three minutes further on, he led them into an open place among the trees. At one side a row of trees had been pushed half over by an avalanche of snow in some bygone winter. A dozen or more of them leaned at a sharp angle, and behind them debris and fallen logs had reared a wall, offering shelter from the wind. Beneath it there was almost no snow.

“Don’t cotton to crowds,” Ledbetter said, “so I found me this place.”

“I’ll start a fire,” Trevallion offered.

Melissa followed him and stood by. “If I can help?” she asked.

He broke suckers from low on the trunks of the trees, gathered some dead, broken branches and chunks of bark. From a pocket he took a bit of tinder, part of an old bird’s nest.

“Do you always carry something like that?”

Without looking up, he nodded. “Can’t be sure of finding something dry.”

When Trevallion had a fire started he led his mule to water, stripped off the gear, and located a place under the trees for his bed. It was back away from the crowd. Nearer the fire he prepared some boughs and grass for Melissa’s bed.

“You mustn’t blame Alfie,” she said suddenly. “Mousel was armed. He might have killed him.”

“Alfie had a gun. He had a pocket-pistol and it was double-barreled. He had two shots to Mousel’s one; he ran like a rabbit.”

He glanced around at her. “Learn to judge men. His kind will always run.”

“Wouldn’t you ever?”

“Nobody knows what he will do. I never have, except from Indians, when outnumbered. But I might. It all depends on the situation. All Alfie needed was nerve. If he’d have pulled that gun, Mousel would have quit cold, although he might try to shoot him in the back, later.”

Ledbetter fried bacon. Several of the men went down to Strawberry to eat. Trevallion brought a loaf of bread from his pack. The three ate without much talk.

Suddenly Trevallion looked around. Tapley was back under the trees, nearly out of sight. “Pull up a chair,” Trevallion suggested. “There’s plenty.”

“I got nothing to offer.”

“You’re company. Come on.”

Slowly he walked down and squatted on his heels. He accepted some bread and bacon and ate, obviously hungry. “Thank you,” he said when finished. “I’m beholden.”

“You can put your feet under my table any time,” Ledbetter said.

“Goes for me,” Trevallion added.

The Arkansawyer squatted again and took up a burning twig to light his pipe. “Lost my outfit,” he puffed a moment. “Caught in a flash flood away down yonder in the desert. Had us two cows. Injuns got ’em.”

“‘Us’?”

“Had me a wife.” He dropped his eyes to the fire. “She was a good woman. Died out yonder…fever. My girl, she’s goin’ to school. She’s in Benecia.”

“Hard,” Ledbetter muttered. “A man comes on hard times.”

“I seen no others,” Tapley replied. “Worked hard all my years but can’t seem to come up winners. Grasshoppers ate me out of two crops back in the States, hail done for another. Injuns burned me out a couple of times. I worked Rich Bar, come up empty. Made the rush to the Frazier,” he turned to glance at Trevallion, “you know how that was.”

“A bust. Gold too fine and too little of it.”

“Aye.” He added sticks to the fire. “Got to make it this time. I got that girl,” he looked up proudly, “and she’s beautiful. I don’t know how come it, me bein’ a homely sort of man and her ma just passin’ pretty, but she’s
beautiful
. A girl like that, with nothing, she’ll have only trouble.”

The morning dawned clear and cold, but there was no wind. The pines edged themselves black against the sullen sky, and the mules were restless when they saddled up.

Nobody talked. Once in the saddle, Ledbetter started off at a good pace. Only a few were on the trail when they reached it, and Ledbetter forged right into the column. Some drew aside, others cursed him, but he ignored the curses, lifting a hand to those who stepped aside and broke into a trot.