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

father, “Fifty-fifty?”
    Tom Trevallion looked at his son as if he had seen him for the first time. Then he said to the Indians, “Fifty-fifty? You take half, we take half?”
    Suddenly something like a smile came into the Indian’s face. “Hifty-hifty,” he agreed.
    Carefully, Val lowered the hammer on his six-shooter and put it back behind his belt.
    The Indians went quickly to the buffalo and began skinning it, carefully dividing the meat.
    Tom Trevallion looked at his son. “Who gave you permission to bring that pistol?”
    “Nobody.”
    “After this, you ask me first.”
    When the Indians had finished skinning and cutting up the meat, one of them indicated the hide. “Hifty-hifty?”
    Tom Trevallion smiled. “You take it. You will use it better than I could.”
    They started off, then one of them turned and looked back. He waved a hand. “Hifty-hifty!” he shouted, and away they went.
    Tom Trevallion watched them go, then loaded his rifle. “All right,” he said, “let’s go back. We’ve got some meat.”
    Chapter 3
    T HEY CAMPED ONE night on a branch of Mary’s River, and Hiram Ward stopped by their wagon. “Fill up your kegs and anything else that will carry water. Then cut some grass for hay. You’ll find neither water nor feed this side of the Carson River.”
    “What’s the problem?”
    “Desert…two days of it.”
    “We’ve seen a lot of desert, Ward.”
    “You ain’t seen the Forty-Mile. This here’s the worst of all, and none of the stock is in good shape. There’ll be no water at all, and no grass. There’ll be a dead animal for every fifty yards and a ruined wagon for every hundred. There’s one spring, boiling hot water.
    “It’s about twenty-four hours of travel. We’ll not set out until afternoon; it’s too hot. Every few hours we’ll stop, feed a little hay and give them water, and then we’ll go on. Fill everything you’ve got with water…you’ll need it all.”
    With hand sickles they went to cutting grass in a meadow close by. They carried it in their arms to the back of the wagon. Much of the weight they had when they started was now gone, for they had used their spare wagon-tongue, and they had eaten most of the food. There was more left than expected, because they were feeding one less than planned.
    Val walked into the meadow and, crouching down, began cutting the grass off short. It was not very tall, and they needed every bit. The morning was hot and his back ached. From time to time, he would gather the hay and carry it to the side of the meadow. He looked at the river and thought of swimming in the ocean at Gunwalloe. Would he ever see Gunwalloe again?
    His father went by, leading the oxen to water. He glanced over. “Get on with it, boy. There’s no time for idleness.”
    He went back to work, cutting another armful, and still another.
    His father returned with the oxen and left them to graze. A bee buzzed near Val in the warm, lazy day. He was hungry, but there was nothing to eat except at the wagon, and he dared not go back while his father was around, and there was little enough. He might get a piece of jerky.
    They had food, but there wouldn’t be enough if they had to stay the winter on this side of the mountains. He went back to work and cut grass. He was still cutting grass when the sun went down, and then slowly he tied up bundles of it and carried them to the wagon.
    Ward came by their fire and drank coffee with them.
    “Nineteen wagons left,” he said, “and we started with twenty-four. Buried five people along the way.”
    “Is that a lot for the trip?” his father asked.
    “Can’t rightly say it is. Hansen’s wife died of fever the second week, Burnside shot hisself pulling his rifle out of the wagon, muzzle first, and then there was the Hansen baby, and McCrane who wandered off.”
    “Who was the fifth? I don’t recall anybody else?”
    “John Helder. He died last night.” Ward glanced at Tom Trevallion. “You two take care