Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (41 page)

At the stable he saddled the black mule. He was riding out when Ledbetter rounded the corner. “Trev? You’re not leaving, are you? Bill Stewart wants to talk to you.”

“Later.” Quickly, he explained.

“Bailey Canyon? I haven’t been up there in a year or more, but last I heard that cabin was empty.”

Trevallion did not go by the longer, roundabout route that turned off above Seven Mile Canyon but cut across, riding west toward the head of Bailey.

Smoke was coming from the cabin chimney. There were two horses in the corral and one, the one Margrita had ridden, tied to a hitching-rail outside the cabin.

He pulled up, swung down, and tied the black mule. Slipping the thong from his six-shooter and carrying his rifle in his left hand, he went up to the door.

The door stood open, although there was a chill in the air. Margrita sat on an empty box near the bed on which lay a man. Another man stood near the stove.

Margrita got up quickly when she saw him. “Val! Thank God, you’ve come!”

He stepped to the bedside. It was Will Crockett all right, but a man wasted and frail, his cheeks sunken, his eyes hollow.

The feverish eyes caught the movement as Trevallion entered. “Good! Good!” he whispered hoarsely. “Tie to him, miss. He’s a good man. I should have listened to him, and to Melissa. They told me. They warned me.”

He caught at Trevallion’s hand. “She has it! I gave it all to her! Her folks bought stock in my first venture! Bought when I was desperate for money ! She has the controlling shares! Now I give her the rest of it on condition she throw him out, Hesketh. Throw him out and keep him out!”

Crockett dropped Trevallion’s hand and reached for hers. “Careful! You’ve got to be careful! He’s left a trail of blood! It was his man shot me!”

“Which man?”

“The big, lazy-moving man, blondish. Figured I was dead. I wasn’t. Been nigh onto a week since. Had to live! Had to beat him!”

“Dragged hisself a couple of miles,” the man by the stove said. “Must’ve been headed toward Virginia from over nigh Steamboat Springs. I done trailed him to where he fell from his horse. Killer chased after his horse, shot the horse, ripped open his saddlebags an’ dumped them out. I gathered up what lay about. It wasn’t much.”

“Be careful!” Crockett’s voice had grown hoarser. “Kill you, don’t care. Kill anybody.”

His eyes flared open and his hand flew out toward the paper on the rough table. “Sign it! Sign it! You’re a witness! I give an’ bequeath, all to her! Every bit!

“I looked for your aunt, ma’am. I surely did. Then for you. I needed that, those shares.

“Take charge. Put him out like he put me. Lock, stock, an’ barrel! Frisco! There was a man in Frisco died in a fire. Whoever set that fire thought it was all destroyed but it wasn’t! Find heirs! Buy rights! They’ll take anything, anything!”

“Take it easy, Will,” Trevallion said quietly. “We will handle it. You get some rest now. We’ll get a wagon over here and get you down to town.” Trevallion looked up to the man by the stove. “Ride in and get hold of Jim Ledbetter. Tell him about this. But tell nobody else.”

“Sure will. Jim? I know Jim. Used to work for him.”

Margrita rinsed out a cloth and lay it on Crockett’s forehead. “I remembered him, Val. He used to come to our house when I was very small. He was much younger then, but a good man, and a good friend.

“My father loaned him money, so did my aunt. She bought shares in his first venture in California, and he gave stock in the Solomon for those original shares.”

They listened to the clatter of hoofs as the man rode off.

“You examine him?”

“No, not really. Enough to know he’s been shot twice, and I suspect he’s lost a lot of blood. I think he has pneumonia now, too.

“Mr. Faber, that’s the man who was here, he found him and brought him here. Sent a friend after me. They were afraid to noise it about for fear they’d come back and finish the job.”

“And so they would.” Trevallion glanced out the door. “We’ve got to be careful, Grita.”

Trevallion walked outside and looked around. He saw nothing but that did not mean nothing was there. If it was so much as suspected that Crockett was alive and had the additional shares to reclaim possession of the Solomon, there would surely be an attempt to kill him. As for himself, he had been shot at several times and knew his number was up.

“Stay inside,” he warned. “I’m staying under cover myself.”

Suddenly he thought of something. “Where was Jacob Teale?”

“He asked if he could take time off to ride to Genoa.”

Of course, the man needed some time to himself. And he had a small ranch near that town.

Impatiently Trevallion paced back and forth, irritably looking at the mountains, up the canyon, and down the trail toward town. “It will take at least an hour and a half,” he said. “Probably more. By the time Faber gets into town and they get a wagon out here, closer to two hours.”

She changed the cool cloths on Crockett’s brow, then came to stand beside him. “This isn’t a play,” she said, “this is real.”

“It is,” he agreed, “but you’re playing it as though you had rehearsed it all your life.”

She took hold of his left arm, very gently. “I have,” she said.

Chapter 47

A
LBERT HESKETH ATE his breakfast at the International and then walked to the few blocks to the offices of the Solomon.

Santley had the reports from the mine on his desk, all neatly laid out. He must, Hesketh was thinking, buy another mill. There was money to be saved, and he suspected the mill operators were not as honest as they should be.

He had been a fool to enter Margrita’s rooms at the hotel, but time was running short and he needed those shares. Every bit of evidence he had accumulated indicated they were in her possession. Knowing she was coming here, she surely would not have come without them. Yet a moment later and he would have been caught going through her desk.

Trevallion, now he had seen the man. He was different than he had suspected, much sharper, cool, and there was something about the man’s eyes that disturbed him. It was Hesketh’s nature that he despised all men and held them in contempt, yet this man, this Trevallion, was dangerous.

The coolness displayed at the killing of Kip Hauser was not what he would have suspected. From first to last, by all reports, Trevallion had been in command of the situation, quick to perceive danger, and acting with deliberation and no sign of panic. Such a man, who lived with awareness, would be difficult to kill as Waggoner had already discovered.

There was a knock on the door, and at his call, Santley entered. “We’ve opened Number Three, sir, and the men have begun stoping it out. The vein at that point is thirty-five feet wide and very rich, the best yet.”

“Thank you, Santley. That’s good news.”

Santley lingered, and Hesketh looked up. “Was there something else, Santley?”

“Yes, sir. There’s a rumor in town, sir, that Will Crockett has turned up. He’s been badly hurt, but he’s said to be alive.”

For a moment his heart seemed to stop but his face showed nothing. “That’s very fortunate,” he said, “now we can get down to business.”

“Yes, sir.”

Santley turned to go. Obviously, Hesketh thought, Santley had expected more reaction.

“Where is he staying, Santley? Do you know?”

“No, sir. I believe it’s your own hotel, sir. It was Miss Redaway and Trevallion who brought him in, in one of Jim Ledbetter’s wagons.”

“Thank you, Santley. If you hear any more of this you might let me know.”

When the office door closed he got to his feet and walked to the window, looking out over the mountainside. He fought down the panic that surged up inside him. There was more than sixty thousand dollars in this safe and his private safe at the International. Why not take it and run?

It was a fleeting thought, quickly pushed aside. What he wanted was here, power and position. So far he had won, and now at this setback he must not weaken.

If Margrita Redaway did have the missing shares, and if she was with Will Crockett, then they had the power to unseat him, to take over. He still would have income from the mine and he had other claims, although nothing like the Solomon.

He had been so sure that Crockett was dead, although he had never stopped worrying. Waggoner had his instructions, and Waggoner would know that Crockett was back in town.

Badly hurt, Santley said. Wounded probably, maybe dying. That would be of no use if he made some arrangement with Margrita Redaway.

The situation was desperate, and it was a time for desperate measures.

Everything he had worked for, connived for, all of it was at stake. Whatever was done must be done now.

All three of them must die, and when they were killed he himself must be much in public view, totally unconnected with whatever happened. It had to be quick, it had to be decisive, and it had to be immediate.

How?

The first thought was Waggoner, of course. He was close, he was convenient, he could be had. He had failed in the past, but in other cases he had succeeded. He had to reach Waggoner, and some means must be set up to dispose of all three.

Somehow he had to get them out of the International, at least two of them. If Crockett was in such shape that he could not be moved, he would have to be disposed of right where he was.

It was then he thought of Mousel.

Hesketh did not remember when he had first heard of the trouble in Placerville. It was one of countless items he heard and filed away in his memory for future reference. Mousel had been about to kill somebody and Trevallion had stopped it. Mousel, it was said, carried a grudge against Melissa Turney, the man she had recently married, and Trevallion.

Mousel, for the past several weeks, had been a mucker in the Solomon, a sullen, disagreeable man and a lazy one. Several times the shift boss had wanted to fire him, but Hesketh suggested keeping him on. Now he knew why.

Dismissing all else from his mind, he worked on plans for the Solomon, the new developments, shipping of ore, and assembling some of the figures pertinent to construction of a mill. All the while at the back of his mind was the problem of Crockett, Trevallion, and Margrita Redaway.

When Santley came in, Hesketh asked, “How much ore do we have that is ready for milling?”

“A hundred and fifty tons or so, and we will take out almost that much today.”

Hesketh sat back in his chair. There was cash on hand, unbanked. He would move that to his safe at the hotel, just in case. He would reduce all the ore to cash as quickly as possible. He had no intention of losing the Solomon, but if he did—

He thought of Mousel. He knew the type, a man who nursed grudges, who lived by his hatreds and through his hatreds. Such a man could be useful.

For a time he sat quietly, thinking of what might be done, fighting down the panic that kept creeping up on him.

All he wanted was here. For a brief time he had held the Solomon, even if by the thinnest of threads, and now they would try to take it from him.

How long did he have? A day? A week? A month?

Put on another shift, he told himself, work around the clock, mill the ore at once, and ship the metal. If he lost the Solomon he could take the money and disappear.

To leave the Solomon? Bitterness was an ugly taste in his mouth. He lunged to his feet, half in panic, half in fury. He would kill them all!

To leave meant that he would lose not only the Solomon but also Margrita Redaway.

But he did not have Margrita, and he had a feeling she despised him. Yet, how could she?
He owned the Solomon!
Women loved power and they loved money, so how could she not admire
him?

As long as he held the Solomon.

Why did Crockett have to return
now?
He had been so sure he would not come back. Couldn’t they do anything right?

Santley had been gone for an hour when Hesketh locked the office door and walked down the hill, down along the street to the International. To leave would be unthinkable. Somehow, he must find a way.

Crockett was in the International, they said. He must find out where. If necessary he would kill him. No knife, a pillow. They would believe he had simply died.

But he must be careful, very careful, indeed.

He must have some more men. He must find a man who could recruit for him, who could gather a tough, hardbitten bunch who would be ready to act when he needed them.

Santley? No. Santley knew little, let him know no more. Never let the left hand know what the right is doing. Let things seem to happen, and be surprised when they do.

When he entered the hotel it was being decorated for a party. He paused, irritated. “What is it? What’s happening?” he asked.

“A party, sir.” The clerk was respectful. “Sandy and Eilley Bowers are back from Europe.”

Hesketh lifted an eyebrow, a faint expression of distaste on his face. He glanced quickly around the lobby. Jacob Teale was nowhere in sight, and he considered that. Had she disposed of his services? Was he off upon some other task? A chilling thought came: perhaps he was guarding Will Crockett?

He went to his floor on the elevator. One of two elevators west of Chicago, of which the hotel was inordinately proud.

He had brought some money from the Solomon, and he opened his own safe, and stored it carefully away. From the safe he took a derringer and a sleeve-holster. From now on he would wear it wherever he went, and he had always carried a boot-knife ready for instant use.

Again he thought of Margrita. She must be killed, too. Reason argued with his desire to possess her as a showpiece, to parade her as his wife. Physical desire had nothing to do with it. He had never felt such things nor cared. He wanted power and power only, not secret power but obvious power. He wanted people to fear him, to obey him, to step aside for him. He wanted not only power but the trappings of power. A palatial home, a beautiful wife, but above all the power to crush, to destroy.

And now he was on the verge of losing it all. If the Solomon was taken from him, he must build it all over again, if he could.