Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (20 page)

She laughed at them. “Of course! He showed up yesterday, very elegant-looking and fashionable.”

“No callouses on his hands, I’ll bet,” Ledbetter said grimly.

“He stopped by to see me. Said he was glad I was doing so well.”

“I’ll bet!” Ledbetter said.

She put her hand over his. “Jim, you’re an old grouch! You never really knew Alfie. He’s charming!”

“What’s he doing for a living?” Ledbetter asked.

“He didn’t say.”

Trevallion said nothing, he was thinking of what he had before him and how it might best be accomplished. He looked around suddenly to find Ledbetter watching him.

“What’s on your mind, Trev?” he asked.

“Mining.”

Ledbetter shrugged. “Be careful. Mousel’s a rat, but a vengeful one.”

Trevallion got up. “If you see Crockett, tell him to look me up.”

He went to the door, paused a moment, and then went along to the corner of C Street. It was crowded with ore wagons, riders, and pedestrians. Miners, prospectors, stockbrokers, teamsters, and occasional drifting cowhands and businessmen, and mingled with them the usual corps of nondescript drifters who follow in the wake of any excitement.

At the MacNeale cabin he changed into digging clothes and went down the drift. He finished drilling the lifters at the bottom of the face, then came back on top and went into the cabin. It was a piecemeal way of working, and he did not like it much, but at least he was getting something done. He hefted the can of black powder; he would need more powder, and he was getting low on other supplies. He made a mental calculation of what money he had left and swore softly. He had been buying until his cash supply was almost gone. Yet he had some good ore and he should be getting some money from the ore left at the mill on his last visit.

Tomorrow, maybe.

W
AGGONER RETURNED TO Virginia City riding a sorebacked roan and in a foul mood. In his pocket there was an additional three hundred dollars and with it there had come a note: until Trevallion was killed, this was the last payment.

The town was crowded, and his arrival attracted no attention. Deliberately, he had developed no associations or friendships. Nobody cared whether he came or went, and that was the way he wanted it.

For the first time he was shying away from the job he had to do. He had killed other men, and would kill more, but not like this one. Trevallion bothered him, worried him, threw him off balance.

He should have had him that night at the gold cache. Four other times he had lain in wait for him, only to find he had taken another route or gone elsewhere. At first he had believed it was pure accident, but he no longer believed that. Trevallion knew somebody was gunning for him.

Waggoner had heard of the Sam Brown incident. That had demanded nerve of an uncommon kind. Also there had either been some organization or loyalty, because both Jim Ledbetter and Christian Tapley had been on hand.

Twice, when stalking Trevallion he had seen Tapley not far off. Watching him? Or just there by chance? If he raised a rifle, would Tapley have shot him? He swore bitterly. What’s-his-name could do his own killing. Although, he reflected, it was his killing, too.

He kept out of sight and made his way to his old dug-out, only to find the lock broken and the dug-out occupied.

Leaving his horse ground-hitched, he opened the door and stepped in. Startled, a man looked up from a chess-board. Another man who had just slid down from a bunk was reaching for his overalls.

“Get out,” Waggoner said, rifle in hand.

“Now see here! Just who—”

“I built this place. It’s on my claim. You busted in where you’ve no right. You’re claim-jumpers.”

“You say this place is—” the chess player started to argue.

Waggoner kicked the chessboard out of his hands, and as the other man started to protest, he struck him across the face with the rifle barrel. “Get out,” he repeated.

The miner whose face he had struck fumbled for his overalls, blood streaming from a broken nose. Shocked and hurt, he could think only of getting out, of getting away.

“We didn’t mean nothin’,” the other man protested, “the place was empty an’ we—”

“You’ve got five minutes,” Waggoner said. “If you aren’t out of here and out of sight in five minutes, I’ll kill the both of you.”

Hastily, they caught up what they could, and with the one man only half-dressed, they stumbled down the trail.

Waggoner watched them go, rifle ready, then turned back to the cabin. For a moment he looked around, then he swore bitterly. The place was filthy.

With another glance out the door to be sure they were not returning, he opened the two windows to let in the air and then began to clean up. He swept the floor, dusted whatever needed dusting. He gathered up their bedding and carried it off the claim, dropping it in a heap. He found a six-shooter which had not been cleaned in months, and after emptying it, threw it out with the bedding.

The small stable, fit for two horses, had not been disturbed. He led his horse inside, stripped off the bridle and saddle, and forked down some hay. Back in the dug-out he placed a pistol on the table before him, and then stripped down his rifle and cleaned it with care. When it was cleaned to his satisfaction, he reloaded the rifle and started on the pistol.

Closing the windows and the door, he stripped down, and pouring water in the tin washtub, he bathed himself. He was a lean, hard-muscled man with massive shoulders and big hands. Naturally lazy, he disliked work of any kind and wanted very little. On Saturday night he wanted a woman, any woman, and he didn’t care what she looked like. Occasionally he took a drink. Once every month or so he went on a tearing drunk that lasted four or five days, at which time he was sullen, silent, and vicious. Bartenders, recognizing the type, served his drinks and left him strictly alone.

At such times he was given to taking offense at the slightest remark, and on two such occasions had almost beaten men to death over some trivial remark. Sober he was cautious, careful, and avoided trouble. He stole whatever he wanted, killed if anyone got in the way, killing men as he would a hog or a sheep. The idea of carving a notch for each man killed would never have occurred to him.

His desire was simple. To kill Trevallion and return to the coast.

He had no plan. No doubt Trevallion was working somewhere around, probably on a claim of his own. He would find out about that first.

The three hundred dollars he had just been paid would last him for months. There was more coming when the job was done. He would have a year of no worries, no troubles.

The town was bigger, bustling and busy. There would be more people around, and he would have to take care not to be seen or suspected. Then a good, clean shot and a ride back to the coast.

Nevertheless, as he stretched out on his bunk he was uneasy. Getting a good clean shot was not easy with Trevallion. Just when you thought you had him, he did something different.

The worst of it was, Waggoner suspected Trevallion not only knew what he was trying to do, but knew exactly who he was.

If he started in again, suppose Trevallion decided to lay for
him?

No question about it. No matter what happened he must do it, get it over with, and get out.

And there were other ways than the rifle.

Chapter 22

A
LL NIGHT LONG the wind blew. Stones rattled like hail against the walls and on the roofs of Virginia City, Gold Hill, and Silver City. The walls leaned away from the wind, and newcomers worried about their roofs and lay awake, frightened.

The longtime residents on Sun Mountain slept soundly, accustomed to the rattle of stones and the awesome sounds of the Washoe Zephyr. Their roofs might also go, but they knew there was no use losing sleep over it. Only the men in the mines were safe, and they had other things about which to worry.

Oozing layers of clay kept pushing into the empty tunnels, and unless trimmed back, would fill any space left available. The veins of ore widened, grew richer, and the problem of how to support walls and stopes became more serious. Up the street, beside a gas lamp, a German from Darmstadt labored over the problem. He thought he had it but was not sure. He got up, put on his hat, and went down the street to the bakery.

The bakers worked late, and the door was always open; the coffee was always ready. Philipp Deidesheimer wanted to talk. He needed another practical mining man, somebody like John Mackay, Fair, or Trevallion. He was sure he was right, but often a fresh viewpoint would bring up something he had failed to consider. Wearing his thick cap and heavy jacket, he went outside into the wind and a few spattering drops of rain. For a moment he stood thinking, and then walked slowly down the street. It was too late; he’d find none of the good ones out at this hour.

Neither Mackay nor Trevallion hung out at the saloons. Both dropped in, but were never late-stayers. Fair sometimes got to talking…it was almost midnight.

Only the bakery, where they were baking for the next day’s business, would be apt to have anyone he could talk to.

He tried the door, and it opened under his hand. Melissa was not there. Hans, from Hofheim, was there. The German baker greeted him with a nod. “Help yourself.” He nodded toward the big coffeepot. “Always, it iss ready.”

Trevallion was seated alone at the back table. He looked up and nodded. For a moment curiosity came. What was Trevallion doing around at this hour? Usually the hardworking ones were abed by this time.

Deidesheimer filled his cup and carried it to the table. He spooned in sugar, added some cream, and said, “I haff somet’ings to show you.”

He took a square of paper from his pocket and put it on the table in front of them. “Vee haff a problem. To support walls and roof. The veins are wide and grow wider. I can t’ink of nothing. Nothing at all. Then it comes to me—the honeycomb!

“Vee built mit square-sets, one atop the other, and we fill in with waste rock for added support. I t’ink vee haff it.”

“You’ll need a lot of timber,” Trevallion said, “more than now.”

“Yah, much more! Before it iss only pillars here and there!” He pushed the square of paper toward Trevallion. “Look! You haff worked in Cornwall! You know somet’ings!”

Trevallion studied it thoughtfully. Formerly, working with timber pillars often of sixteen to thirty-odd feet, there was only poor support, and there was no way of working either above or below the pillars without risk of a cave-in.

No miner had worked a vein the width of those at the Comstock before this, and new methods were needed. “I see no reason why it will not work,” he said. “I think you’ve got the answer.”

“It is for the Ophir,” Deidesheimer said.

“Everybody will be using it. Once they see how it works, it can’t miss.”

“You goot man,” Deidesheimer said. “I t’ink it iss well to go into the timber now. Mit a flume to carry down logs. I t’ink you tell me once your papa did not want you to vork underground, yes? Cut timber and you get rich I t’ink.”

Trevallion glanced at his watch. If he was to act, it must be soon. Deidesheimer finished his coffee. He got to his feet. “I am obliged. I wished for another opinion. I was afraid I had overlooked some obvious fault.”

Trevallion shook his head. “Whether you know it or not, and I am sure you do, you have revolutionized mining. This will change everything.”

“Perhaps.” Deidesheimer gestured widely. “Much iss new here. The old vays are no longer so good. Vee must find new vays for new problems, no?”

Trevallion walked outside with him and watched him start off toward his home. He waited for a moment, studying the street, and then he went around the bakery and took a narrow footpath toward the east. When he had gone some thirty yards or so he stopped, and from beside a rock he took up several stakes and a double-jack. Following the footpath, he was out of the lights and away from any houses. The path passed near some dug-outs, but all was dark and quiet. Before him loomed the head-frame over the Solomon’s shaft.

He waited, listening. He could hear the guard humming softly, then the sound of his boots as he walked. Timing his steps to sound with those of the guard, he walked up a small gully and past the Solomon’s hoist-house. From the corner he paced off twenty steps, and kneeling, he built a small cairn of rocks. In the exact center and close to the ground, he buried a tin biscuit box with his claim notice inside.

Moving to a corner he thrust a stake into the ground, hitting it two short, sharp blows with the double-jack. The sound of the blows was muffled by a glove he placed over the end of the stake, so he moved on quickly to another. As he struck the second blow he heard a muffled exclamation, then the sound of running feet. Flattening out on the ground he waited, listening.

The guard came as far as the hoist-house, then stood listening. After a bit, muttering, he walked away. Trevallion placed the other two stakes without trouble. He was rising to leave when the guard loomed over him.

“Hah!
Got
you!” He swung with the butt of his rifle.

Trevallion, only starting to rise, threw himself to the ground on his shoulder and spun around as the blow with the gun stock missed. His instep caught the guard behind the knee. The knee buckled, and Trevallion kicked him hard alongside the kneecap with his other heel.

The guard grunted with pain and fell. Like a cat, Trevallion was on his feet and kicked the guard in the head as he fumbled to get his rifle in position. The kick knocked him sprawling, and Trevallion caught up the rifle.

“You’re trespassing.” He spoke very softly. “You’re not on Solomon land any more. Now you crawl, you crawl to wherever you want to go, but don’t come back here. Next time I might hurt you.”

“You’ve busted my knee!”

“Not yet. It will be sore for awhile, that’s all. Now get out of here.”

“I got a job! I can’t just—”

“You had a job. You won’t have it after tonight. Now move!”

The guard tried to get up, cried out in pain, and fell. “Just crawl,” Trevallion whispered. “You’ll feel better that way.”