Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) (48 page)

At twelve o’clock he stopped again. “Get some sleep, Grita.” He used her first name without thinking of it. “Use my vest for a pillow.”

“I don’t think I’ll need it.”

“Use it,” he said, “I’ll work for a couple of hours longer.”

“What do you think?”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t look good.” He took up the candle and held it close, peering into the hole he had made. There were more rocks beyond. The candle flame did not flicker.

“We’ve got some distance to go yet,” he said. “Get some rest. It will help later on.”

She made a sort of bed near the face of the cross-cut, and strangely, she slept.

He worked steadily, hollowing out a place no larger than necessary, just a crawl space, actually. Several times he stopped.

When he rested he tried to visualize the layout of the mine as he had studied it in the office. There had been an old working, nothing very much, yet a place where some previous prospector had sunk a slanting shaft into the earth not very far from where they now were.

But where?

And the cross-cut? He mopped the sweat and went back to work.

Work on the Comstock had never been easy. Several times miners had encountered hot springs deep underground and had to run to escape a flood of boiling water. The cross-cut was being dug to connect two drifts or tunnels that spread from the main tunnel in a Y formation. The cross-cut would connect the two arms of the Y, so it was unlikely there would be any danger from hot springs in that direction unless from overhead. Still, a man never knew. Mining on the Comstock had ever been tricky, and all a man could expect was the unexpected.

He worked steadily. His muscles ached with weariness, sweat dripped into his eyes, and they stung from the salt. He found himself resting more and more often. Was he imagining it, or was the candle flame burning lower?

He backed out of the hole again. He was in over fifteen feet and the roof above him seemed fairly solid. He mopped his face and chest with his shirt. Margrita was sleeping, and thank God for that.

His watch lay on a flat rock where she had removed it from his vest before using it as a pillow. It was after two in the morning.

The work had been painfully slow. Each rock he removed had to be pushed behind him, and as he worked deeper, the rocks had to be taken from his improvised tunnel.

He sat down heavily, blinking the sweat from his eyes. He belonged nowhere and was accountable to no one, hence would not be missed for some time. Nor would Margrita be missed until play time tomorrow, for this was already Sunday. If the air was going bad now, as it seemed to be, how much longer could they last? Another twelve hours? It would not be enough, unless, but who would guess where they were?

Teale!

Of course, Teale would return to the hotel and when he found she was gone he would make inquiries. Or would he? Not for a while, at least. He would assume she was resting.

Twice in the next two hours he had to detour around rocks too large to move. Whoever had placed the charges had been shooting down rock, not trying to break it for running through a mill or for mining purposes.

It was nearly five o’clock when he was struggling with a rock when he heard one fall away ahead of him.

He put out a testing hand.

Emptiness!

He backed out hurriedly, got the candle and crawled back, holding it out before him. Hope vanished in a cloud of despair.

About fifteen feet of space, and then another wall of broken rock.

He crawled slowly back to where Grita lay, and sat down.

Another barricade of rock, and then perhaps still another.

He felt empty and exhausted. Resting his arms on his knees he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

He was tired…so very tired.…

Chapter 55

A
LBERT HESKETH AWAKENED on Sunday morning with a sense of well-being. He shaved and dressed, thinking with satisfaction how well events had moved forward.

True, Teale was still alive, although badly wounded, but he was out of action for some time. Rig and Les were gone, removing a complication that had annoyed him.

Margrita Redaway’s guards were in place to prevent anyone from approaching the Solomon, and Margrita and Trevallion had been disposed of. Or he believed they had.

Twice he had gone to her door and rapped. Once a maid had told him, “She’s not in, sir.” Then with a knowing little smile, “She went out with a young man. Right handsome he was, too!”

“Ah, well,” he had smiled, “the less said the better, then. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, of course, sir! I’d say nothing, nothing at all!”

“Of course.” He put a small gold piece in her hand. “I know you’ll be discreet.”

He dressed with his usual neatness and rode the elevator down for breakfast. Perhaps a dozen others were at breakfast, none of whom he knew. Salesmen, or mining men, in town to look over the prospects.

Albert Hesketh folded his newspaper and placed it beside his plate. He was thinking, coolly and carefully, of what must now be done.

He had cleared the decks of obstructions. From here on, it should be smooth sailing. As the largest surviving stockholder, he would have little trouble regaining possession of the Solomon. The tactics had already been established for skimming off the richest ore from the mine, but he would go further. He would file a claim on the Trevallion-Crockett claim adjoining the Solomon and use that to take out the best ore both from the new mine and the Solomon.

He watched while his cup was refilled. He was safe. He had been nowhere near the Solomon.

He took out his watch. Perhaps sixteen hours they had been down there now. If not killed in the explosion, they should by now be approaching their end. How long could they last? How much air was there, actually?

What would happen next? No doubt by tomorrow somebody would begin inquiries for Margrita. He could suggest to somebody that they had eloped. Such stories had a way of traveling, and soon everyone would accept it as fact. When he resumed work in the Solomon, he would start with a different crew and he would open new workings. Their bodies might never be found.

Trevallion was a tough man. As the thought came, he put his cup down sharply. At a nearby table a man turned his head, glancing at him.

Tough, but not tough enough. Yet, how long could a tough man last? How much air was there? Trevallion would certainly try to escape, which meant he would exhaust the air that much faster.

Had they left any sign on top? Anything to indicate their presence down below? He shook his head. Not a chance. What could they leave? And after all, his letter to Santley was there, warning them against going into Forty-Nine. He smiled. That had been a nice touch.

Albert Hesketh was pleased with himself. Despite all obstacles, he was in command. Will Crockett was gone, and now these two. Even the “tools” who might offer some kind of a clue were gone. Only Waggoner remained, the massive, stolid, uninterested Waggoner, and he knew nothing, and cared less.

The drift should be closed. Even if someone discovered what had happened, and there was no way, it would take a week of hard work to open up that tunnel. Four separate charges, and the amount of damage done to the tunnel would be extreme. The drift had been run into brittle quartz and clay, dangerous stuff at any time, and the relatively small charges would bring about a collapse much more extensive than in other type of formation.

He accepted a refill of his coffee cup and opened his newspaper. He had never liked loose ends. He was a man who preferred neatness. He wanted all the packages neatly tied and the ends tucked in. And he had done just that. Within a few hours, perhaps even now…

Opening his paper, he glanced across the top of it, and somebody was looming over the table. Despite himself, he looked up.

“Hello, Mr. Hesketh. Mind if I sit down?”

“I am afraid,” Hesketh’s throat was tight, “I do not know you.”

“I think you do. We were on the stage from San Francisco together, Mr. Hesketh. My name is Manfred. I am an actor in Miss Redaway’s company.”

“Oh, yes! Yes, of course. What can I do for you, Mr. Manfred?”

What was it about his eyes, the chin, the way—

“You can do quite a lot, Mr. Hesketh, but first you can tell me where Margrita Redaway and Mr. Trevallion are.”

“Oh? They are around some place. I, I am not among their circle of friends, I’m afraid. You will have to ask elsewhere.”

“I am asking you, Mr. Hesketh, and I want an answer. You see, I know all about you, Mr. Hesketh, all.”

Albert Hesketh was icy cold. It could not be. This could not happen. Who was this Manfred?

“That’s very nice. I had no idea I was so interesting, Mr. Manfred, but then it takes very little to interest some people.”

“I’ve been interested for a long time, Mr. Hesketh. For more than fifteen years, Mr. Hesketh.”

With a careful hand, not to spill a drop, Hesketh filled his cup. Then he looked up. “Coffee, sir? If we are to talk we might as well relax.”

“No coffee,” Manfred said.

“Fifteen years? It seems a long time. I don’t seem to recall—”

“You used to talk of loose ends, Mr. Hesketh. You never liked loose ends. Well, I’m one of those loose ends, Mr. Hesketh. I am a loose end that never got tucked in as you like them done. I am one of your mistakes, Mr. Hesketh.”

Hesketh smiled. “Mistakes can always be rectified,” he replied.

“Where are they, Mr. Hesketh?”

“I have no idea.” He folded his newspaper. “I am afraid, sir, we must terminate this conversation. I have other matters to attend to.”

“Of course, Mr. Hesketh. You have to do something about me, do you not? You have to rectify that mistake.”

“I am not amused.” Inwardly he was trembling with anger. Who was this interloper?

“You’re such a
little
man, Mr. Hesketh. Really, a very petty little man. You have fancied yourself an important mining man, Mr. Hesketh, but you are not. Look around you, Mr. Hesketh. Take a good look because this is as far as you’re going.”

Albert Hesketh stood up. Inside something seemed to burn with a white heat. He fought to retain his coolness. “I am sure, young man,” he said, “you have some sort of delusion. Go take a hot bath and lie down for a few hours. It will pass off.”

Manfred smiled. “I shall find them, Mr. Hesketh. You can bank on it. The rest of the company are out now. We are looking, checking. We will find them.”

Hesketh shrugged. “I hope you do, if it will make you feel better. They have probably eloped, gone off to Genoa or somewhere. Maybe even to Placerville.”

“I think not.” Manfred arose. “Trevallion’s mule is still in the stable. So is Miss Redaway’s horse. We’re going to find them, Mr. Hesketh.”

Hesketh went to the elevator and then to his room. He was trembling with fury tinged with sheer panic.

Who
was
this man? Why did he look familiar?

Again he consulted his watch…
eighteen hours
.

How much longer?

He must, somehow, get word to Waggoner. How, without being seen and recognized?

Suddenly, standing by his window, he saw the answer to his problems.

The Ax—the Clean-Cutter!

He was down there on the street now, but could he be reached, and would he act as wished? The Ax had always been the least known, the least understood of them all. Moreover, he traveled alone and had never hung out with any of the old Missouri crowd.

Most of that Missouri crowd had actually been drifters from elsewhere, men who congregated at the points of departure of the wagon trains. The Ax was a different sort from the others, seemingly better educated, always better dressed, and very likely the most dangerous of the lot.

Manfred would know nothing about the Ax, hence would not suspect him.

O
N A SUNDAY morning at the bakery, all was quiet. Melissa arose late, attended church, and then returned to the bakery. Only one baker was on the job this morning, a thin, tall man with sandy hair and bushy eyebrows who was a New Hampshire man, who dreamed of making his pile and returning to the coast to spend the rest of his life fishing.

“Harry? When you get the bread in the oven come back and sit down.” Melissa sipped her coffee and glanced out the door. Across the street a blond man in a black broadcloth suit was tying his horse to the hitching-rail. As was often the case in the west, she noticed the horse first and the man after. It was a splendid animal, far better than the average drifter might have. It was the sort of horse only a wealthy man or an outlaw would be apt to have. Outlaws needed horses that could run fast and far.

The man looked up and down the street, then started across to the bakery.

“Harry? We’ve a customer. Draw him a cup of coffee and after he’s gone, tell me what you think of him.”

The door opened and the stranger stepped in, removing his hat as he did so. He was a handsome, blond man with a wedge-shaped face. She had recognized him the moment he turned to face the bakery as the man who had waved to them on that long-ago day.

“Oh? I am sorry, ma’am, but you are open for business?”

“We are. Come and sit down. Harry? The coffee if you please.”

He seated himself at a nearby table, glancing around. “Warm,” he said, “and pleasant. I don’t know when I’ve seen a pleasanter place.” He looked at her. “Or a prettier woman.”

“Drink your coffee,” she said.

He flashed a quick smile. “I will.” He waved a hand. “Quiet today?”

“It’s not noon yet. Most of the noisy ones are still sleeping off last night.”

“Was that when the shooting was?”

“Shooting? Oh, that one! No, it was earlier. Broad daylight.”

Harry walked over, stirring sugar into his coffee. He spun a chair around and sat down astraddle of it, putting the coffee on the table before him. “Figured they had him boxed. Come in on him from both sides, an’ him expecting nothing.”

“They got him?”

“Nope. They surely didn’t! That ol’ Jacob Teale’s a foxy one! They come in at him and went for their iron, and he nailed both of them. They got lead into him, and he may die, but he settled their hash. Done it quick an’ smooth.”