Novel 1981 - Comstock Lode (v5.0) Read Free

winds made outside cooking impractical. Added to that was a pair of ten-gallon kegs for water, to be fastened one on each side of the wagon, a churn, cups and plates of tinware, and tools.
    “I will sell you my husband’s rifle,” the woman said. “It is of a calibre that uses about thirty-two to the pound. There is also a pistol.”
    “We had thought of staying in the States until June,” Mary said. “We have so much to learn.”
    “It is too late,” the woman told them. “Not earlier than April fifteenth as there is no grass to feed your stock, and if you leave after May fifteenth you won’t make it through the Sierra passes because of snow.”
    There wasn’t much to Westport, just a cluster of log and frame buildings on the bank of the river. Tom Trevallion moved his family into the wagon to save money. Beside the fire that night he put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “It is a different life, this. The people are different. We’ve got to learn to do things right the first time, because where we are going there isn’t much room for mistakes. Keep your eyes open, Val, and you will learn fast.”
    “That man who asked you about the gold, he was in the store when you bought things.”
    “I saw him.”
    “He started talking to me,” Mary Trevallion said, “asked when we were going.” She looked up at her husband. “I told him we had not decided, that we might decide to stay here and farm.”
    Tom Trevallion smiled. “Good girl. No reason to let anybody know our business.”
    “That man bothers me. I don’t like him.”
    Val’s father shrugged. “Just nosy…lots of people are.”
    Val helped load the wagon. He learned to build a fire, to grease the axles, to care for the oxen. As was his way, he said little. When two or three of the wagonmasters and trail guides got together, Val managed to sit close.
    On the day after they bought the wagon, Val went into the street to pick up a coil of rope his father had bought. The man with the pale eyes was seated against the side of the store-building eating a piece of bread. He seemed to have nothing else.
    Walking back there were several young men from fifteen to twenty-five years standing in a group, talking. “…says he pays for everything in gold.”
    “Damned furriner!” another said. “How’s he have so much when we’re down to our last?”
    Were they talking of his father? Val hurried to the wagon. “Papa? I heard some men—”
    His father listened. “They could have been speaking of many a man here, Val. But I have no choice. It is gold that I have, although little enough of it, so it is gold I must spend.”
    Later his father came to him. “Do you watch over the little Redaway girl. Her father and I must go up to town on business. Your mother is resting and Mrs. Redaway will be bathing in her wagon. We shall be back soon.”
    “But, pa!” Val protested.
    “Do as you are told. She is a fine little girl and you can play—”
    “Play!”
he scoffed. “She’s only
eight!
”
    “No matter. Each must do his bit and that is for you. Be kind, now.”
    Her name was Marguerita, she told him politely, but her papa called her Grita.
    Val started by telling Grita stories, and what followed was horror.
    Chapter 2
    N EVER BEFORE HAD Val talked to a strange girl. Those he had known at Redruth or St. Just-In-Penwith knew all the stories he knew, and it was not much different at Gunwalloe, although he had known almost nobody there. This was different.
    Grita Redaway was a very thin girl with large eyes that seemed dark in the darkness. She listened wide-eyed as he told her of working deep underground, of the tommy-knockers who haunted the mines, and then of shipwrecks and storms along the rocky coast of Cornwall.
    The two wagons stood isolated, the next closest wagon was at least two hundred yards away, beyond a roll of the hill and some trees. Their camp-fire had burned low. Val could hear the water splashing in the tin tub where Grita’s mother