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

was bathing.
    Val and Grita were seated back at the very edge of the brush inside the circle of darkness. Trevallion’s voice was low, so as not to disturb his mother who rested in their wagon. He was in the midst of a shipwreck off the Lizard when he became aware of a mutter of voices, drunken voices.
    “We’ve got to move fast,” somebody was saying, a voice not at all drunken. “The wagons will be empty and that gold is hidden—” The sound trailed away, and several men came into the circle of light. Instinctively, Val put a hand over Grita’s mouth and pulled her back under the brush.
    One of the men took a pull at a bottle, and another grabbed it from him. “Hey! Gimme that! Share an’ share—”
    “George?” It was Grita’s mother. “Is that you?”
    One of the drunken men lurched toward the wagon and jerked back the canvas. “No, this here ain’t George, this here’s—” His voice broke off sharply and then…a scream.
    Holding Grita tightly, keeping her face against his chest, young Val watched in horror. The first man leaped into the wagon and others scrambled after him.
    There was a stifled scream and the sounds of men brawling and angry.
    At least four of them were in the wagon and others were struggling to get in. Suddenly Val’s mother thrust her head from the rear of their wagon. “Edith?
Edith?
What is it? What—”
    The men outside the wagon turned and rushed at Mary Trevallion. All but one. That one drew back in the brush opposite the children and seemed to be waiting.
    Several men came from the wagons, almost falling over each other, and suddenly, into the glare of light came Grita’s father. He came striding into the circle of light totally unaware. Stopping suddenly he looked around wildly. “Wha—”
    “Kill him,” somebody said, and suddenly they rushed at Redaway, striking and clubbing.
    He struck out wildly, landing a grazing blow. He struck again, and then a club drove him to his knees. Redaway tried to rise, his head streaming with blood, and he was beaten down again.
    Frozen in fear the boy clutched Grita to him, knowing if he released her she would run to her mother and be killed.
    Suddenly someone shouted. “Look out!
Run!
Here they come!”
    The violators scattered. One man toppled from a wagon, falling full length, then getting up, looking around, obviously frightened. There were bloody scratches on the side of his face. For an instant he was staring hard right at them, and Val recognized him as the man who had spoken of those “damned furriners” only that afternoon.
    As quickly as they had come, they were gone. And then the lone man came quickly from the shadows and scrambled into the wagon. There was a shuffling around and then a muffled scream and a thud. The canvas curtains parted and the man came out, holding his father’s money-box in his hands.
    The thief took a quick look around and started away when George Redaway groaned. The man stopped, then turned slowly. Drawing a pistol, he stood astride the fallen man. Holding the money-box under his arm, he held the pistol in two hands and shot Grita’s father between the eyes. Then he thrust the pistol behind his belt and walked away.
    Grita tugged at Val. “Please! You’re hurting me.”
    He released her slowly. “Don’t look,” Val said sternly. He took her by the hand. “We’ve got to go get papa.”

    A FTERWARD VAL COULD never remember the days that followed. They had found his father, loaded with a few last-minute purchases, and somehow he had blurted out his story of what had happened. His father dropped his purchases and ran. The storekeeper folded his apron, caught up a pistol, and ran after him.
    The storekeeper’s wife caught him as he started to leave. “You…you two stay here with me. It’s for the men to do now. There’s nothing you can do. It’s
awful!
” she said. “Just
awful!
”
    During all those days he stayed close to Grita. She was younger, he told himself, and she had lost