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    Comstock Lode (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures): A Novel
    Comstock Lode (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures): A Novel
    Comstock Lode (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures): A Novel
    Ebook580 pages8 hours

    Comstock Lode (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures): A Novel

    By Louis L'Amour

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    About this ebook

    The classic Western, now newly repackaged as part of Bantam's Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures program--with never-before-seen material from Louis and his son, Beau L'Amour.

    It was just a godforsaken mountainside, but no place on earth was richer in silver. For a bustling, enterprising America, this was the great bonanza. The dreamers, the restless, the builders, the vultures--they were lured by the glittering promise of instant riches and survived the brutal hardships of a mining camp to raise a legendary boom town. But some sought more than wealth. Val Trevallion, a loner haunted by a violent past. Grita Redaway, a radiantly beautiful actress driven by an unfulfilled need. Two fiercely independent spirits, together they rose above the challenges of the Comstock to stake a bold claim on the future.

    Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures is a project created to release some of the author’s more unconventional manuscripts from the family archives.
     
    In Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures: Volume 1 and Volume 2, Beau L’Amour takes the reader on a guided tour through many of the finished and unfinished short stories, novels, and treatments that his father was never able to publish during his lifetime. L’Amour’s never-before-seen first novel, No Traveller Returns, faithfully completed for this program, is a voyage into danger and violence on the high seas.
     
    Additionally, many beloved classics will be rereleased with an exclusive Lost Treasures postscript featuring previously unpublished material, including outlines, plot notes, and alternate drafts. These postscripts tell the story behind the stories that millions of readers have come to know and cherish.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRandom House Publishing Group
    Release dateJul 28, 2020
    ISBN9780593158678

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    Reviews for Comstock Lode (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

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    • 4/5
      Not sure I'd consider this a "lost treasure", but it was an enjoyable read with a bit more depth than many of L'Amour's westerns.

      The underlying plot thread of "You killed my family and I'm going to hunt you down and take revenge" has accounted for barrels of ink and forests of pulp paper, particularly in the Western genre. L'Amour softens it a bit here by having the protagonist realize, after 20 years or so, that the crusade had lost much of its urgency and that basically all he wanted was to be left alone. The appearance of a young woman from his past, and circumstances beyond his control, heated up the quest once again.

      This is all set against the background of the gold and silver boom in what became Virginia City, Nevada, as the Civil War broke out. There are politics involved here, interesting insights into hardrock mineral mining of the day, sneaky villains, plucky young women, and boom-or-bust mentality.

      The subplot also pads out the length quite a bit, but overall the story maintains a good pace and holds the reader's interest. There's a low-key romance and considerable derring-do as it all wraps itself up.
    • 5/5
      Really good reading. L'Amour puts a good and accurate sketch history of the Comstock together with the mystery and gunfights.
    • 4/5
      One of Louis' sprawling epics - this one of the Nevada gold rush. A story that begins with murder and rape, includes revenge, boom towns, betrayal, love, traveling actors, and a mine cave-in. I love it!

    Book preview

    Comstock Lode (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) - Louis L'Amour

    PART ONE

    CHAPTER 1

    It began with a dream that ended in horror.

    It began in a thatched cottage with wind around it and rain beating on the shutters, with a flagstone floor and the smell of fish frying, and his mother putting blue plates on the table and his father sitting by the fire. It began in Cornwall, in England, in 1849.

    It began with listening to the storm blowing in from the sea and the fire hissing from occasional drops that fell down the chimney.

    It began with Val Trevallion’s father saying, Mary, we are going to America.

    His mother stopped, holding a blue plate in her two hands, staring at his father.

    We are going to California, to the goldfields. There will be no more mines for our son, and this day I have decided.

    Tom Trevallion leaned over and knocked his pipe empty of ash on the edge of the hearth. Tomorrow we will go to Gunwalloe.

    But aren’t there mines in the goldfields?

    "It is placer-mining like we tinners used to do before the deep mines began. A man need not go underground there, nor a lad, either.

    Look at him! He has been a year in the mines now and the color is gone from him. He was a fine lad with a fine brown color to him when he worked with the fishing. I’ll not have it, Mary. He shall not live hidden from the sun as I have.

    But how can we, Tom?

    I’ve put by a little…not enough, but something. And we shall go to Gunwalloe by the sea for a few days.

    To Gunwalloe? Oh! She realized her husband was speaking of the treasure. But it is useless. So many have tried, and some of them for years.

    Aye. Yet I have been told a thing or two. I have spent days and nights with old Tregor. The man’s dying now and well he knows it. He’s always liked me, Mary—

    Your grandfather was shipmates with him. They went through it together, those two.

    "He’s whispered a thing to me, the old man has, and nothing about the money-ship, she from whom the coins wash ashore from time to time. ’Tis another vessel entirely, their own vessel. When she was sinking off the Lizard some of the men escaped overside, each with his own keeping, the share each man had for himself. They tried to run up the coast to Gunwalloe where they had friends, but it was a bloody beast of a gale, and they went on the rocks off there, and only grandfather and old Tregor reached the shore.

    Most of what they had, and those with them, still lies yonder, off the rocks. No great treasure, mind you, but enough for California, I’m thinking.

    But if you start diving off the rocks you’ll have half the village around you!

    "At night, Mary, only at night. On the last days of fishing…’twas then I found the wreck.

    "We’ve but one son, Mary, and he must have his chance. In the old days of tinners it was not a bad thing, working along the streams and such. We were out in the air and working for ourselves only. Now it is the big companies who have it all, and they do not like me, Mary. We tinners were a different breed, too free to suit them.

    It’s for America we are, a bit of land and a cow, some chickens for eggs, and a horse or two for riding or driving to a cart.

    His father was dark of visage, as Val would be, a man square-shouldered and powerful from hard work and the lifting. A man who talked little but was listened to because of the manner he had. Those in charge at the mines liked his father little because of his straight back and the way he looked right at them when he spoke. Yet they kept him on because he was the best of them.

    Val himself had gone into the mines at the age of twelve, as did most boys, but it was the change in him that led his father to move. That and some drive within himself that asked for better things.

    The day the Trevallions left for Gunwalloe was a memorable one. Jenkins, the owner himself, had come around to the house to ask his father back, a thing unheard of, with all the village watching from behind doors and curtains.

    Leave now, man, and you canna come back. I will not have my men coming and going.

    I shall not come back, Tom Trevallion said. There are mines over the sea, and I shall have one of my own.

    Fool’s talk! What do you know of gold? You’re a tinner and a copper man, maybe, but gold? ’Tis another thing.

    I can learn.

    Have you money enough then?

    We’ve put some by, and I’ll sell the house.

    Val stood beside his father, a proud lad to see it, for never before had the owner come down to a miner’s cottage to ask after any man.

    His father looked the owner in the eye and said, Why don’t you come yourself, then? Sell this and come out to California. This— he waved a hand, is but a teapot operation to what you will find there.

    This made the owner angry. A teapot opera—

    You’re a canny man, his father said, you would do well, yon.

    Jenkins grunted his disdain. You dare to advise me? You’ll starve over there, if you manage to leave at all. You will starve or drown or be killed by savages.

    He started to turn away, his back stiff with offense. You have been given your chance to forget such nonsense but now I’ll not have you. Go, then! Go!

    Jenkins strode away down the street, anger and damaged pride in every step. His father had turned to see his mother smiling. Ah, Tom, if starve it is to be I shall starve a proud woman! Who would think to hear the owner told so completely. You are a bold man, Tom.

    I shall needs be bold. Do not think I go lightly from here, Mary. We shall face trouble. But now we will go to Gunwalloe.

    You will sell the cottage?

    I have spoken to Edward Bayne, the new man who keeps the shop, and he would be having it from me, and a fair price, too.

    Val had looked up at his father then and asked, Is it far to California?

    It is far…very far, I am told.

    Will we go upon a ship?

    A very small ship, I am afraid, with very many other people. Then, when we get to America, I must find work and when we know what we are about, we must buy a wagon—

    A wagon?

    Aye. One is needed for the crossing of the great plains. We will need cattle for the drawing of it, and a horse for riding. And a rifle-gun for shooting game.

    But what of the wardens? Mary protested.

    There are no wardens. The game run wild for any to hunt who will.

    Have you shot a rifle?

    I have not. Nor have I so much as held one in my hands. Here in England only the great landowners may hunt, so the only guns I have seen were in the hands of soldiers. But I shall learn. We all must learn.

    Father? What are ‘plains’?

    It is like a moor. It is grassland, miles upon miles of it, with no trees but those along the streams, and there are few streams.

    Tom? Is it as far as London? To cross the plains, I mean?

    He looked at her smiling. Will Holder, you know? He who returned to Helston for his family? He said it would be five months in the crossing…perhaps six.

    He paused. "It is very far. We must carry with us all we will need. It will cost us dear to go to California, Mary, but it will be worth it.

    Do you remember Will Holder? He left here with nothing, and when he came back he wore fine clothes, had new boots, and with money to spend.

    They went down the road in the morning to Gunwalloe by the sea, and they went to the house where Mary Trevallion was born and where her brother Tony still lived. You still have the boat? his father asked.

    Aye. Tony was a stocky man with a blue kerchief at his throat and a leather coat. You have need of a boat?

    There are fish in the sea, yonder. If you will help you may have a bit of what I catch.

    You will catch nothing if you seek more than fish. John Knill searched long for the King of Portugal’s ship but found nothing. You will find nothing, too.

    Have you a memory for old Tregor?

    Who does not, who lives in Gunwalloe? He was of this place, but always away upon the sea, and when at last he came back, he came walking up from the sea, all dripping and soaked. I remember it well. He staggered from the waves like a man drunken. And then away he went to live out his years in Mullion.

    Did he not come back to Gunwalloe at all?

    He did. A time or two he returned for the fishing and to share a pint or two in the tavern.

    All those years? What did he live on then?

    Tony shrugged. It is said he cared for horses for the Godolphins.

    What he lived on, his father had said, "was what he brought back from the seas. Old Tregor is dying now, and he left to me what is out there, and when I have had what I need, the rest is for you. When Old Tregor went out fishing he was actually diving, at a place he knew. There’s no enormous treasure, just some packets of it, and rich enough for the likes of you and me.

    When I have had mine there will be a bit left. Use it sparingly, and let no man or woman know what you have, and there will always be a loaf in the cupboard and a pint on the table.

    When the morning came they went down the coast for the fishing, and when dark was coming on, they crept back up the coast and dropped anchor off the rocks. While Tony sat with a line out, Tom Trevallion dove down, and when he came up he held a small box, and in it were a few gold coins and a piece or two of jewelry. Then, while he rested, Tony went down and came up with a canvas sack, small but with gold coins also, a silver buckle, and some odds and ends.

    It was not much, for it was what each man had for himself before the big treasure was divided, that stormy night long ago. But each man brought the share he had at hand when they fled the boat, before it broke up and sank off Gunwalloe. Tregor had lived his life away on what remained of one or two of the shares.

    Tony kept only one gold coin for himself, but came away with the knowledge of where the boat lay. At least two more packets were down there, and possibly a third.

    The morning after, Tony drove the Trevallions in his cart to Falmouth, a far piece. The ship lay there, small, dirty, and overcrowded, but a ship.

    Only hours later they were at sea. Val loved the great sails, the creak of the bumpkins, and the rush of water along the hull. The storms frightened him, yet I could be a sailor, he told his father.

    ’Tis a dog’s life, that. Work by day and by night, and naught but poor food and much abuse with small payment at the end.

    But they are out in the air! Val protested.

    Aye, his father agreed, there is that.

    When we reach America we will not go to California at once?

    Will Holder advised against it. First, he said, we should come to know the people and the climate of things. A newcomer can make mistakes.

    Have we enough, then? Mary asked.

    With care we’ve what is needed for California and to hold us a bit until I can earn.

    It seems a lot…the gold, I mean.

    Not much when we think of all that must be bought. A wagon, oxen, a horse, a rifle, and much food. Will says a poor man cannot go west, it is too expensive by far.

    Val’s father and mother talked of little else but California and what they would do there and how they should live. It seemed a far off, magnificent dream, but all aboard the ship were dreaming, some of one thing and some of another.

    Gold was everywhere, people said, they had simply to pick it off the bottom of streams, or wash it from the earth. Tom Trevallion smiled at that.

    They will sing another tune when they have worked at it for a few hours. We tinners grew up panning for tin before the big mines took over everything. It is hard, hard work.

    A Yorkshireman who slept near them spoke up. "You may have your gold and your California. I am for Oregon. I want no gold, just the good earth. Let me dip my hands in good black loam and feel the richness of it in my fingers.

    Treat the earth kindly, my friends, and it will give you comfort, security, and all a man may need. If you plant a flake of gold in the earth, will anything come of it? But plant a seed and it will repay you many times over.

    Their ship took them to New Orleans, and a river steamer to Westport. In New Orleans they all bought new clothes. We will need them, his father advised, they will be cheaper here than in St. Louis or Westport.

    At Westport suddenly their plans changed. Mary Trevallion saw a woman crying. She was seated in the lobby of the small tavern where they had taken a room until they found a wagon in which to live and travel.

    Tom, Mary said suddenly, this woman’s husband has died. She is left with two small children and a wagon and stock she cannot use.

    She will have no trouble selling them here.

    Why not to us?

    The woman looked up. If you will buy today I will sell cheap. I want to go home. I want to go back to my folks.

    The wagon was strongly built and painted blue. Tom Trevallion, who knew much of such things, examined it carefully.

    You can have the oxen—there are eight head—for two hundred dollars. The wagon should be worth fifty.

    Val’s father had squatted on his heels to study the underpinning. There was a spare wagon-tongue lashed there and a sheet of canvas, suspended by its corners and almost the length of the wagon. It sagged a little.

    What’s that for?

    Buffalo chips, a bystander said. The womenfolks walk behind the wagon and pick up buffalo chips and toss them onto that canvas. They’re the only fuel you are likely to find.

    Buffalo chips? Mary Trevallion’s distaste was obvious. But aren’t they—

    The man grinned. They are, lady, but they’re very dry…old ones. They make quite a good fire. Ask any plainsman.

    They bought the wagon and the animals. A man in a store-bought suit, a pale man with hollows at his temples, stood by and watched the purchase completed. He was neatly dressed but he did not smile, merely watched through pale eyes. His beard was sparse but carefully trimmed.

    A farmer standing by lighted his pipe and glanced at Tom Trevallion. You made you a good deal. Mighty lucky to have that much. Two hundred dollars is about a year’s income for a farmer, these days. I’d like to go west, m’self, if I could afford it.

    The woman took the coins Tom Trevallion paid her, and the man with the pale eyes stepped quickly forward, reaching for one of the coins. May I see that? He looked at the woman. I’ll give it back. It is a rare coin, I think.

    The coin was gold, quite heavy. A doubloon, the man said. One sees very few of them. He looked around at Tom Trevallion. Where did you get it?

    Something my father brought from the wars. Had it for years, he added.

    The man with the pale eyes handed back the coin. Interesting, he said. Have you more of them?

    No, Val’s father spoke stiffly, and turned away. The man lingered, watching them.

    It took the Trevallions another week to prepare, to buy what was needed in tools, ammunition, and food supplies.

    The woman from whom they bought the wagon had a prepared list. Her husband had talked to several wagonmasters and frontiersmen before compiling the list and it was, she assured them, as complete as they were apt to find.

    For each adult 200 lbs of flour, 75 lbs of bacon, 30 lbs of pilot bread, 10 lbs of rice, 25 lbs of sugar, ½ bushel to a bushel of dried beans; 1 bushel of dried fruit, 2 lbs of saleratus, 10 lbs of salt, ½ bushel of cornmeal, 5 lbs of coffee, 2 lbs of tea, ½ bushel of corn, parched and ground, a keg of vinegar, and assorted medicines. They also bought a cast-iron Dutch oven and skillet as well as a small sheet-iron stove and boiler that could be used inside the wagon when rain or strong 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

    Never 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 campfire had burned low. Val could hear the water splashing in the tin tub where Grita’s mother 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.

    —

    Afterward 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 both her parents. She clung to him, and he comforted her as best he could.

    Boy, one man advised him, you be careful who you tell that you recognized one of those men. If they find that out, they’ll try to kill you.

    Not much we can do. The man who spoke wore a badge. "Drifters, more than likely, scattered to the four corners by now. Him with the scratched face that the boy saw coming out of the wagon, he won’t be showing himself until it’s healed.

    Anyway, he added, that crowd trampled out any footprints.

    I’ll find them, Tom Trevallion said.

    Be careful when you do, the man with the badge said, there’s some rough men in that lot.

    The storekeeper’s name was Kirby. He reached into a drawer and drew out a pistol. Tom, you take this. You may meet them close up where a rifle won’t be much use. You take this—it’s a gift from me—and good luck to you.

    The bodies of Grita’s mother and father and Mary Trevallion were buried side by side on a little hill not far out of Westport. Val clung to his father’s hand, his other arm around Grita. Numbly he stared at the casket being lowered into the grave, and he could associate none of it with his mother. She was gone…that was all.

    When it was over he asked, What will we do now?

    We’ll go west, his father said. Mary would wish for it to be that way.

    What about Grita?

    We will take her with us. She is one of us now.

    The minister spoke up. She may have kinfolk who would take her in. Did they ever speak of anybody else?

    His father frowned. Come to think of it, George did speak of his wife having a sister. We shall go through her things. In fact, Marguerita may know where she lives.

    Slowly, Val walked back to where Grita stood alone. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and frightened. She was alone now, all alone. You will be one of us, he said. My father has said it. Although, he added, he says you have an aunt.

    Yes. Aunt Ellen. She lives in New Orleans.

    We’ll have to go through your folks’ things to find her address. Val hesitated, hanging his thumbs in his pants pockets. Wish you could stay with us, though. I never had no girl around before. He flushed. You’re kinda nice.

    His father wrote a letter, and it went down the river on a steamboat, and then they waited.

    Kirby came around to see them. Tom, he said, if you’re figuring on going west, you’d best go. Time’s short if you want to make it through the passes.

    I’ll wait until I hear from her aunt, he said.

    Kirby studied him. He had grown thinner, the bones in his face seemed sharper. You’ve got a fine boy, there, he said. He’s going to miss his mother.

    Aye. Tom Trevallion stood quiet for a minute or so, and then he said, I miss her, too. God, how I miss her!

    Ellen Devereaux arrived on the next boat from New Orleans, and she was not at all what Tom Trevallion expected. She was slim and very lovely, with cool eyes and an easy, gracious manner. Thank you, Mr. Trevallion, for taking care of my niece. She tells me you have both been wonderful. Ellen Devereaux looked down at Val, smiling. She has quite a case on you, young man, and I can see why. You’re a handsome lad.

    She turned to his father. They got away? The men who did this?

    They did. The boy here, he saw some of them, but nobody recognized any of them from his descriptions. We didn’t talk about that much, he added, "being fearful they might come back and kill the boy.

    That sort of thing is rare. They were a bunch of drifting scum, but even so, they were drunk.

    My brother-in-law? He was killed outright?

    They beat him down, Val said. With clubs and fists. There were eight or nine of them. Then later one man stood over them and shot him right between the eyes.

    Afraid of a witness, Tom suggested. He frowned. From what the lad says there was something peculiar about that. The man who did the killing had stood aside during most of it, but he was the one who got our money and he was the one killed George.

    They should be punished! Ellen Devereaux’s eyes were no longer cool. Every one of them!

    There’s no law out there. No way to reach them.

    Val spoke suddenly. I will kill them. I will kill every one of them. I will kill them or die trying.

    Startled, they looked at him. Grita clutched his hand suddenly, and Ellen said quietly, I know how you feel, Val. I could kill them, too, but you must not let it ruin your life. You’re young. You’ve much to live for. Someday you will have a nice home, you will get married—

    I want to marry Grita.

    She laughed. Now, there, Grita! You have your first proposal! If you could call it that.

    —

    The next morning they joined a wagon train for California.

    Overhead was a vast blue dome of the sky, around them an ocean of grass, rippling away in endless waves when touched by the wind. Day after day the oxen plodded on. At night there were campfires, the circle of wagons, and wolves howling. Several times they saw Indians, but they were not molested.

    Then the rains came, and the prairies became muddy; they made slower time. Once they camped within sight of the previous night’s camp.

    Val drove the oxen at times. He took them to water, built the fires. His father had become morose and silent, speaking rarely and then in anger. Val learned to keep silent and to keep his distance. Sometimes at night, watching the campfire from near their own wagon, his father would start to talk, and for hours he would ramble on about mines and mining, about drilling, breaking rock, using explosives. Long afterward Val would remember those times and realize that his father was trying, in the only way he knew how, to pass on what knowledge he had, and he would understand how inadequate his father felt at suddenly becoming an only parent, trying to fill the roles of both father and mother.

    He had ever been a solitary man, totally involved with his wife and child but depending on his wife to offer their son the gentleness and warmth that he somehow could not impart.

    Val had always understood that his father loved him, but somehow that feeling had always come to him through his mother.

    Westward they went, day after plodding day, moving at a pace that never exceeded about two and a half miles per hour. Over the long flatlands, up the low hills, down steep declivities, gathering buffalo chips as they went against the fires of the night, and ever alert for the Indians that never came.

    Never until one morning they awakened to find some of the saddle-stock driven off. Because of Val’s affection for their mare, it had been kept inside the wagon circle and so was safe.

    Nobody saw an Indian, nobody heard an Indian, only the horses were missing and there were unshod pony tracks. Several of the men were for pursuing them and trying to recover their stock. The guide advised against it.

    That there was a war party headin’ for home, he said. "Several of them was afoot and they needed mounts. You ain’t about to catch them, and if you did, somebody would lose his hair…maybe all of you.

    There was, he added, about twenty warriors in that party. That’s enough to work all kinds of mischief. You just be glad they taken your horses an’ kep’ goin’.

    Later, the scout rode out when it was Val’s turn to watch the horses. He drew up beside Val and cut off a chew. He offered the plug to the boy, who shook his head. That pa o’ yourn seems a right solid man, the scout commented, but quiet. Heard he lost his woman, your ma.

    Yes, sir.

    "It’s a hard thing to lose somebody you set store by, a mighty hard thing. There’s men who find another right off, there’s others never get over it. I reckon that’s the kind your pa is. He’s a mighty lonely man, your pa. You got to think of that, boy, you got to understand him.

    "Had a couple of horses one time, always ran together, stayed together. If I rode off on one without the other, the one left behind he sulked until I got back. One got hisself killed by a b’ar…’t other one was never much good after.

    Your pa’s a one-woman man. It’s like he’s lost part of hisself. You think of that, boy, an’ if he’s hard or angry, you make allowances, y’ hear me? You make allowances.

    The scout got to his feet. Come to think of it, that’s how we all live with each other, by makin’ allowances.

    A few days later, with the mountains showing snow-topped crests against the sky, he stopped by again. You an’ your pa take my advice. These here are just the first mountains, and they already got snow. You take my advice an’ stop this side of the Sierras an’ wait for spring. A man can die in those passes of a winter.

    The scout said, Name’s Hiram Ward, son. Don’t know we ever met, really. Ward glanced at him. I hear tell you saw those men who kilt your ma.

    I saw them. I’d know some of them.

    Can you describe them to me?

    Slowly, carefully, he described those he had seen clearly. Some of the faces had never been turned his way, some had been in shadow. One he would never forget. It was the one who had stood over George and shot him. He did not describe him.

    "That one with the scratched face. The way you tell it, that sounds like Obie Skinner. He’s a bad one. I don’t even think that’s his right name, but he’s been robbin’ and murderin’ along the Mississippi.

    Runs with a mean crowd. You tell your pa to fight shy of them. Kill him soon’s look at him.

    They sat silent for a few minutes and then the boy said, I will not forget them.

    Ward glanced at him, struck by something in his tone. What is it, boy? What are you thinkin’ of?

    I am going to kill them. I am going to kill every one of them.

    Ward was silent for a few minutes. Know how you feel, boy, but remember what the Good Book says? ‘Vengeance is mine saith the Lord.’ The evil men do catches up with them, boy. You leave it to time, and the Lord.

    Val said nothing. Within him there was a resolution, a hard core of something that no words could touch. He could only remember his mother and how his father had been while she lived. His mother and Grita’s mother had been brutally murdered, and the men who had done it were free.

    "You got your life to live, boy. You get taken up with thoughts of killin’ those men…A man can lose sight of everything else when he’s bent on revenge, and it ain’t worth it.

    "Suppose you find them and kill them all? Half your life will be gone and what’s left? I mean, something like that becomes an obsession that rules out everything else, and when it’s done, a man’s left empty. I ain’t got much in the way of book learnin’, boy, but I seen a sight of men.

    Your pa’s going to need help, these comin’ years. You got your life ahead of you. You build you a life and forget those men.

    I think, Val said slowly, one man caused it all. They were all drinking but him.

    Ward turned sharply. What’s that?

    The man who stood over Grita’s father and killed him was not drunk. He waited until the others had…had done what they were doing, and then he called out that somebody was coming, and when they scattered, he went into the wagon and took the money. When he came out, Grita’s father groaned, and that man came back and shot him. I saw it.

    Ward stared at him. Boy, are you sure of that? Would you know that man?

    "I…I think so. I didn’t really see his face, but I think I know who it was."

    Be careful, son. Many a man’s been hung on no more than that. You don’t want to hang the wrong man.

    No, sir.

    The grass grew shorter, the trail more sandy, and to right and left were sand-hills. The oxen made slow time of it. Once they saw a herd of over a hundred elk drifting along a hillside perhaps a mile away.

    The cattle grew leaner, people talked less, and many a worried glance went to the snow on the high ridges. It was early for snow, yet it was there. Only a little as yet, but frightening in its implications.

    We waited too late, his father said, but we couldn’t leave that girl.

    Hiram Ward said we should not try to go to California this year. That we should wait until spring.

    His father was silent for a long time. They were seated together on the wagon seat, one of the few times they had ridden so. The wheels rocked and rolled over rocks and rough places in the trail. It was steadily uphill now. He had not realized how much they were climbing until he turned to look back and could see the end of the wagon train a half-mile back and much lower.

    Might be best, his father said at last, if our supplies last. We need some meat.

    Ward drifted back from the head of the train and rode beside their wagon for a few minutes. Tomorrow we cross the Divide. Mostly downhill until we reach the Sierras.

    They saw no game. The herds of buffalo seemed to be behind them. Far off, they glimpsed antelope.

    It was almost sundown when they made camp, and his father got down his rifle. Val looked at it in awe. His father rarely handled the gun, and there had been too little chance for hunting.

    Can I come?

    His father was about to refuse, then said, Yes.

    They started out from camp and Ward rode after them. Huntin’ meat? he asked.

    We are.

    Easy to get lost. Injuns out yonder, too.

    We will not go far. If we see nothing we will return.

    Yonder, Ward pointed, there’s a crick. Some years the deer come down to drink there. You go easy and you might find game. Be careful, there’s Injuns about.

    They walked on, down a slope of sparse gray-green grass, around an outcropping of rock, through some trees. They saw a glint of water and stopped, looking carefully about.

    Val looked up at his father, but said nothing. They moved through the trees, trying to walk softly. They glimpsed the water again, dipped through a low place, and came up a grassy slope to look down along the creek where five buffalo were standing.

    Val looked quickly at his father, whose face was white. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the rifle, and laying it over a low branch, he took careful aim at the nearest cow buffalo. He aimed, then stopped and straightened up, wiping his eyes. Val looked at him again but his father was intent upon the buffalo.

    There was something moving over there. Pa?

    Ssh!

    His father took aim again and slowly squeezed off his shot. The cow lunged, then slumped to her knees and rolled over. Excited, Tom Trevallion burst from the brush and then pulled up short.

    Still quivering in the flank of the buffalo was an arrow!

    There was a pound of hoofs. The boy and the man looked up to see five Indians sitting their ponies.

    One Indian pointed to the buffalo. He belong me, he said.

    Tom Trevallion shook his head and touched his rifle. I killed it.

    The Indian lifted his bow and then pointed at the arrow. Then he indicated Trevallion’s rifle. You gun gone. He empty. He held up the bow with an arrow ready. Bow no empty. You go. He pointed at the buffalo. Mine.

    No. Tom Trevallion stood his ground. My bullet killed him. You see.

    The Indian looked at his companions. Five mans. You one mans. We take meat.

    There was a sharp click and the Indian turned his head sharply to Val. The boy saw his father look around, too. He held his father’s pistol with the hammer eared back.

    Val took one hand from the gun and spread five fingers toward the Indians. Five, he said,

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