Comstock Lode Page 5

  “Laid that boy out stone cold. I rizz up and cussed Obie, told him I would handle my own fightin’, but he just laughed at me.

  “That was the year he taken out an’ joined up with river pirates. He stole a mule and got ketched with it, and then he wormed his way out of jail somehow and taken to the river.”

  “You tell me about Obie Skinner,” Val said. “Who did he run with?”

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 5

  Eighteen fifty-nine. Ten years gone…ten years during which Val Trevallion was a driven man. Filled with hatred for the men who had killed his mother and father, he had worked from job to job, saving a little money, doing the jobs given him with a single-minded purpose.

  He had helped around a trading post, clerked in the store, had worked for a printer who had a small newspaper, had been a packer with a mule train, prospected, fought Indians, worked as a deckhand on a Sacramento riverboat, and had covered the country from Sonora to the upper Frazier River country in British Columbia. He had worked in mines, been a shift-boss when he was eighteen, superintendent of a mine at twenty.

  Trevallion came to be known as a man who could get things done. He could handle men and he knew ore. Several times he had taken over mines that were failing, had turned them into producers and then left, nor would any amount of money get him to stay on.

  For ten years Trevallion had lived with no other thought than to find and kill the murderers of his father and mother, to see them punished for what they had done. His father had killed two, Trevallion had been able to find and kill two more, and he was still determined to search out the others. Which led him now, ten hard years later, on his way back over the mountains.

  It was hot and stuffy in the small shack where they awaited the horses and mules that would take them over the Sierras. Glancing around at the others he felt a sharp impatience…fools, wild-eyed with dreams of gold. He had seen their kind before, men and women hungry for wealth and most of them totally unwilling to do the work it required.

  He went to the door and stepped out into the bitter cold. There was snow upon the mountains, but in town the earth was bare and frozen. Humping his shoulders against the wind, he walked to the end of the freight platform and was turning back when his eyes caught a flicker of movement.

  Pausing, Trevallion fumbled in his pockets as if searching for something and, without turning his head, saw from the corner of his eye a man in a heavy overcoat come out of the trees on the hill opposite. Hesitating only an instant, the man started down the slope in a stumbling run.

  At that hour it was unlikely the man would be headed for any place but here, for day had just broken and the sky was scarcely gray.

  Nine people waited inside for the mules that would carry them over the mountains to Washoe, but the only one who had seemed apprehensive was the frail blonde girl with the flashy young man.

  Whatever it was she feared had drawn only scoffing replies from him, and Trevallion had turned away mildly irritated at the two. Young love—he had seen it all before.

  Why did all these youngsters believe they had discovered something new? Why did so many repeat the same mistakes and blunders? Maybe life wanted it that way.

  Trevallion had been over too many rough trails with too many men not to recognize the young man for what he was. He had the flashy good looks that appealed to some women and a shallow mind tied to a glib tongue, but he was strictly lightweight and would quit when the going got rough.

  For the girl Trevallion had only compassion. Young she certainly was, and quite pretty, but there was a shading of character there, too. Time and trial had not yet demanded that character to surface, but surface it surely would.

  He was turning back to the door when the scuff of boots on the frozen road turned him around.

  It was the man he had seen on the hill opposite, a dirty, unshaved man, inclining toward fat. Despite the intense cold his coat hung open. No doubt to permit access to a gun.

  Brushing by him without a glance, the man went to the window and peered in. His fingers fumbled under the coat again.

  Trevallion had known too much of trouble not to recognize the signs. Any minute now the mules would be brought around for mounting, and the people would be emerging. Trevallion did not like the man peering in the window, nor did he want anything to interfere with their leaving. A shooting might do just that.

  His tone was casual. “Remember what they used to call this place?”

  His concentration broken, the man looked around, seeming to notice Trevallion for the first time. “Wha—? What did you say? You speakin’ to me?”

  “Just wondering if you knew what they used to call this town?”

  Irritated by the interruption, and impatient, the man straightened up. He had round, flabby cheeks and small eyes. He peered at Trevallion. “Ol’ Dry Diggin’s, wasn’t it? Now it’s called Placerville. What’s it matter?”

  “There was a time it was called Hangtown. Folks around here had a short way with murderers. They never discussed it, they just hanged them.”

  “What’s that got to do with me? Who’re you, anyway?”

  Trevallion smiled. It was a good question. It was a very good question. Just who was he?

  Hoofs rattled on the frozen mud and stones as a man on muleback rounded the corner, leading a string of saddled mules and pack animals. Trevallion recognized the rider, Jim Ledbetter.

  “How are you, Jim?”

  The rider in the buffalo coat pulled up sharply, peered, then spat. “Val? Well, I’ll be damned! Last I heard the Modocs had killed you somewhere over back of Shasta.”

  “It was close. They got some lead into me and one arrow. Seemed like a good time to leave out of there so I did.”

  “Heard they found blood all over the rocks, so the boys figured you’d been scalped and your body dropped into a hole in the lava beds.”

  “They had it in mind.”

  Ledbetter swung down. “You headed for Washoe?”

  “Isn’t everybody?” Trevallion indicated a black Spanish mule. “How about that one for me?”

  “He’s yours. Be good to have you along.”

  “Expecting trouble?”

  “No more’n usual. The trail’s god-awful. Mud’s knee-deep when it ain’t froze. There’s a solid line of travel both ways so the road is all chewed up. Most of them are pilgrims who don’t know which end is up. Wouldn’t know a color if they saw one.”

  “How’s things in Washoe?”

  “Virginia town, they’re callin’ it now. At least some do. Nothin’ but scattered shacks an’ dugouts, with here and there a rock-house. God knows there’s rock enough to build a city, just lyin’ there.”

  “Are they finding any ore?”

  “Aplenty.” Ledbetter hitched his pants and spat. “You could go to work tomorrow, Val. The Washoe started as placer, and there’s still a good bit of it being done, but the big thing is going to be quartz-mining and there’s nobody around knows how to work in hard rock. Nobody but a few of you Cousin Jacks.”

  “Jim, I left Cornwall when I was a youngster. All I know about mining is what I learned here.” He paused. “Of course, my pa tried to teach me something. He grew up in tin and copper mines. I did work in them a little, but only as a youngster.”

  “You forgot more than most of them will ever know, Val. Once they find out you’re a Cousin Jack you will have a job…if you want it.”

  The door opened suddenly behind him and Trevallion heard the people coming to mount their mules. He thought suddenly of the fat man to whom he had spoken. Trevallion caught Jim’s eye and jerked his head to indicate the man. “Watch it, Jim. This is trouble.”

  The blonde girl and her flashy young man were the first to emerge.

  “You, there!” The fat man drew back his coat.

  The two stopped in midstride. Th
e girl’s eyes went wide with fright. Her mouth opened but no sound came.

  Suddenly all the young man’s flash and style were gone. He tried to bluster. “You got no say over her! We’re agonna be married!”

  “Like hell you are!” The fat man produced a pistol. Trevallion was startled to see it was an old-fashioned dueling pistol.

  The young man broke and ran, the pistol exploding just as he ducked around the corner. Shouting, the man ran after him, waving the now empty pistol. At the corner of the building he turned and walked back to the girl, grabbing her arm. “You! You git for home! By the Lord, I’ll—”

  Fear was gone from her eyes. She braced herself against his grip. “I’ll not! You leave go of me!”

  Her eyes turned to Trevallion. “Please, mister! I don’t want to go with him!”

  “Is he your father?”

  “He is not! He married my mother after pa died, an’ ever since ma died he’s been after me. I…I hate him!”

  “Damn you! You come with—”

  “Let her alone.”

  Trevallion’s tone was low, but there was a quality in it that stopped the man. “If she doesn’t wish to go with you, she doesn’t have to.”

  “You stay out of this!” The man clung to her arm with his left hand, holding the dueling pistol in his right. “This here’s none of your business.”

  “Mister, in this country we don’t abuse women. Take your hand off the lady.”

  The man let go but he lifted his gun and pointed it at Trevallion.

  “Don’t be a damned fool!” Trevallion said irritably. “Your gun’s empty. When you go hunting meat, my friend, you’d better be better armed than that.”

  Ignoring him, he glanced at the girl. “Do you want to go with this man?”

  “No, I don’t! I want to get away. He, Alfie, he was going to help me.”

  “You’re well rid of him. Have you any money?”

  “A…a little.”

  Jim Ledbetter spoke up. “Her ride’s paid for. So’s his. I can sell that ride and give her the money.” A little wryly, he added, “It doesn’t look like Alfie’s going to show up.”

  Trevallion glanced back at the girl. “It will be rough up there. Maybe you should try Sacramento?”

  “No. I want to go to Washoe. To Virginia City.”

  “Mount up, then.”

  The others had started getting into their saddles, some clumsily, others with expert ease. The fat man started forward but Trevallion blocked his way.

  “Damn you! You’ve no right to interfere!”

  “You’ve no claim on her. If I had my way they’d run you out of town. Your kind aren’t wanted anywhere. When you pointed that gun at me, I could have killed you, and probably should have.”

  The man backed off, but his plump cheeks shook with fury. “Damn you! You’ll see! I’ll get even! I’ll get both of you! Both of you!”

  The agent came from the door. “Jim? Here’s a packet of mail. Most of it is for Hesketh.”

  “Hesketh? Isn’t he that bookkeeper for the Solomon?”

  “That’s him. He gets more mail than his boss, seems like.”

  Ledbetter tucked the letters into a saddlebag, then swung to the saddle and led off, the others following. Trevallion fell in behind the girl. She had a nice straight back and sat her saddle well.

  “I’m Trevallion,” he offered.

  She smiled. “I am Melissa Turney.” The smile left her face. “His name was Mousel. He’s a placer-miner sometimes, sometimes a trapper.”

  She offered no comment on Alfie and Trevallion decided it was no time to ask questions.

  The morning was cold and overcast. The wind from off the ranges was chilling, and as they mounted steadily they could catch glimpses of snow under the pines.

  The Spanish mule had an easy gait and, like most mules, a no-nonsense attitude. The mule knew exactly where he was going to step and was not about to be guided by some casual pilgrim who might or might not be trail-wise. He had his own way, and Trevallion let him have his head.

  The trail was badly rutted, and here and there run-off water had cut deep trenches across the way, and the ruts had frozen into a maze of rocklike ridges, making every step a hazard.

  Even at this hour the trail was already crowded with a winding, snakelike procession of men, animals, and occasional wagons. Mule trains forged ahead with that complete indifference to the life and limb of others typical of pack mules the world over. Nobody in his right mind disputed the right-of-way with a pack mule who brushed people aside like so many trailside branches or clumps of brush.

  Jim Ledbetter was as single-minded as any mule. His sole responsibility was to those who paid to ride his mules, and to their packs, and he forged ahead like the others.

  Nobody wished to stop or even pause for fear someone would pass them by in the rush for Washoe. Wrecked wagons were thrust rudely aside, some of them leaning perilously over cliffs, others already toppled into canyons.

  At one point a keg of whiskey fell off the back of a wagon and was immediately seized by a passerby who helped himself to the contents. As if by magic, tin cups appeared, and by the time the teamster, whip in hand, came striding back, the situation was too far out of hand to permit interference. With a shrug he accepted the cup of whiskey extended as a peace offering, drank it, and returned to his team.

  Slowly they worked their way up the steep, winding trail bordered by pines. It was a brutal road, horses, mules, and men scrambling over rocks, slipping on ice, plunging and buck-jumping through occasional drifts, turning out to avoid rock falls or small slides. Despite the trail they made good time.

  Occasionally they were passed by pack trains of ore returning from the mines.

  At the ridge’s crest they drew up to let the mules catch their breath and to drink the clear, cold water of a rivulet that fell from the bank in a miniature cascade, and crossed the trail to pitch off into the canyon.

  Ledbetter walked back to Trevallion. “It’s like every boom camp in the world, Val. Everybody hopes to strike it rich, many of them believe they have, others are con men just looking for a gullible newcomer to whom they can sell their claim or a piece of one. Everybody has ‘feet’ to sell, and most of it ain’t worth the price of a Digger Injun’s breakfast.”

  He paused, gesturing toward the east. “There’s forty or fifty pieces of good ground up there and several dozen others where a man can dig a living. That’s about it. Why, I know of some claims that have been sold time and again without anybody seeing a color.”

  Ledbetter bit off a chew and offered the plug. Trevallion declined. Ledbetter glanced sharply at him. “Didn’t you an’ your pa come this way?”

  “We did.”

  “Man, I’ll never forget that Forty-Mile Desert ifen I live to be a hundred. Dead animals ever’ few feet and busted down wagons scattered all over.”

  Later, at a widening of the trail, Melissa rode up beside Ledbetter. “You all right?” he asked her.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You got a pair o’ man’s pants? Be a sight easier if you rode astride on these steep slopes. I know it ain’t what’s considered ladylike, but you’ll see most womenfolks usin’ them on the road.”

  “I’ll be all right.” A few steps further along she asked, “Who is he?”

  “Trevallion? He’s a Cousin Jack. That means he’s from Cornwall, over in England. They’re about the only ones around who know anything about hard-rock mining.”

  “I mean…who is he?”

  “He’s a loner, ma’am, a hard, tough, dangerous man. He rides alone, walks alone, lives alone. There’s nothing to him that ain’t rawhide and iron, but if a body’s in any kind of trouble, he’s the man you want beside you.

  “If you’ve got ore, he will get it out. If you lose a lead, he’ll find it for you
quicker than anybody I know. He knows ground, ma’am, mining ground. He knows how to load his holes so the ground breaks fine, and he’s one of the best men with a single-jack I ever did see.”

  “What’s a single-jack?”

  “It’s a small sledgehammer, ma’am. That’s about the easiest way to explain it. Used with one hand, for drillin’ into rock. A double-jack is used with two hands and is a reg’lar sledgehammer. Mostly one man turns the drill, the other strikes it. Trevallion is good. The best I ever did see. He’s got more power in those shoulders and arms…well, that’s one way to build power, swinging a double-jack.

  “He come over from the old country with his folks. Beyond that nobody knows much about him. A few years back when he was only about sixteen he hired out to deliver twenty thousand dollars in gold to a bank in Sacramento. There were outlaws after that gold and Injun trouble, too. When he didn’t show up folks figured him for dead. Three months later he come down out of the woods lookin’ like the wrath of God. He had two festerin’ arrow wounds and was wore down to skin an’ bone, but he brought in the gold, ever’ pinch of it.” Ledbetter paused. “Such things get talked about, so he become a known man.”

  “How old is he?”

  Ledbetter shrugged. “Who knows? Or really cares? Most men out here are young, even the ones who look old. Country does that to a man, that an’ hard work. I know he could have been superintendent of a big mine in Grass Valley, and he wouldn’t take it. Somethin’s eatin’ on him, I reckon.”

  The trail narrowed, and Ledbetter rode on ahead, glancing back from time to time at the winding black snake of men, animals, and wagons that followed.

  Melissa shivered at the cold wind off the mountain. What would she do in Virginia City? Her whole thought was to escape, to get away, by whatever means. How she would exist after that was something to which she had given no thought aside from supposing she would be married. She flushed with shame, remembering the way Alfie had fled.

  There would be something, there had to be something! Her mother had hoarded a little money Mousel had never known she possessed. She had married him when left alone and desperate, with a young daughter to bring up. He had proved a cruel, parsimonious man, vindictive and petty.