Hard Money (10 page)

“Why didn't he join you at Hamp's?”

Seay carefully laid down his knife and fork and said, “Come out with it, man! Are you saying Tober robbed me?”

Hardiston shrugged his slim shoulders and unsmilingly said, “That isn't all. I haven't got proof for what I'm about to say.”

“You haven't got proof for what you've already said.”

Doggedly Hardiston reminded Seay that each morning it was his duty to stop at the express office to sign bills of lading on outgoing freight and to see if the tunnel teams were to call for freight. On Saturday morning, Hardiston said, he'd stepped behind the express-office wicket to check some off-size drills, which were being returned to the makers in San Francisco. “While I was counting them,” he went on carefully, “I noticed a small package addressed in the same handwriting as the drill tags.”

“Tober's handwriting, you mean.”

“Yes. I thought the package was one of the drill collars Tober was returning.”

“What changed your mind?”

“When I picked it up it clinked, like a box of assorted washers.”

The two men stared at each other a long moment, Hardiston's gaze unfaltering. Presently Seay said, “Are you trying to tell me this package held gold coins?”

“I'm not trying to tell you anything. I'm relating what happened.”

“Remember the address?”

“No. Except that it wasn't Murray's, where the drills were going.” He hesitated. “Why should I? I thought finally it was a personal package of Tober's.”

Seay said, “That's pretty thin proof.”

“I said it wasn't proof.”

Seay kicked the bench away from him and walked over to the door, his face dark. Hardiston watched him without rising.

“You think this package weighed enough to—”

Seay paused and began again. “Would four thousand in gold pieces weigh the same as this package?”

“That's one thing I can answer,” Hardiston said firmly. “I haven't been a paymaster for nothing. The answer is definitely yes.”

“You think it was gold?”

“That's for you to answer.”

Seay said carefully, “Thanks, Hardiston. I won't go to Tober with it. I realize it's only a hunch—maybe a valuable one.”

Hardiston joined him at the door. “That's off my mind,” he said firmly. “I don't accuse anyone. On the other hand, I want my name cleared.”

Together, they left the mess hall and walked as far as the bunkhouse, where they parted. In three minutes Seay was in his bunk and asleep.

It was almost noon when Tober shook him, and it was like trying to fight off a drug to come awake. Tober swung his legs to the floor and held him in a sitting position until Seay raised his head.

“Bonal's here,” Tober said, excitement in his voice. Seay heard that, and he shook his head, muttering, “Bonal?”

“Yes. Want to see him?”

“I'll get my clothes on.”

Charles Bonal was sitting in the swivel chair when Seay entered a few moments later. Reed Tober was smiling as Bonal rose and shook Seay's hand. Hardiston and Cruickshank were in the room and the five men chatted together for a few minutes, after which Cruickshank and Hardiston left.

Bonal settled back in his chair and passed cigars to Seay and Tober.

“Mexico City must have moved north considerable since I last saw it,” Seay observed.

“I didn't go to Mexico City and never intended to,” Bonal chuckled. He pointed to his beard, which was clipped and combed neatly. His eyes were less pouched, almost fresh, and he smoked his cigar with slow relish. “Can't you guess where I've been?”

“San Francisco.”

Bonal inclined his head. “That Mexico City trip was a blind. Janeece has men down there now, scuttling my ship.” He smoked thoughtfully. “I did my business in a cheap hotel, and with Mexican mine owners from San Luis Potosi, who were in town at my request.”

“Good God, Bonal,” Tober blurted out. “What did you find out? That's what we want to hear!”

Bonal deliberately waited a moment, while he carefully flicked the ash from his cigar. “We have money,” he announced then. “Not an awful lot, but if we handle it carefully, it'll do us.”

Tober said pardonably, “Jesus!” and sighed.

“The stage driver on the Walker River-Tronah leg assured me last night that the tunnel was still running,” Bonal murmured, observing Seay. “He also mentioned something about a poker game.”

Tober said dryly, “Liars, those stage drivers, to a man.”

Bonal rose and peeled off his coat, still avoiding Seay's eyes. Then he yanked off his tie and said to no one in particular, “I think, gentlemen, that all three of us can stand considerable kicking around.” His gaze touched Seay, and for a moment it held all of a grateful man's thanks. “Let's look at the tunnel.”

The three of them went out, but Seay paused in the outer office and said to Hardiston, “Come with me a moment, Hardiston.”

Outside, and away from the door, they faced each other. Tober and Bonal, in shirt sleeves, were deep in conversation as they passed the bunkhouse. The sun hammered mercilessly from overhead, causing Hardiston to squint as he looked up at Seay's cold and impassive face.

“Bonal came back too soon for me to spare you all of it, Hardiston. If I were you, I'd pack up now, while Bonal is in the tunnel. You won't have to face him if you hurry.”

“Pack up?” Hardiston murmured, watching Seay's face with unblinking eyes.

“Yes, you see that money I was robbed of was mostly in bank notes, not gold. That's the trap I laid. Tober couldn't have changed the notes, because he was with me till daylight. He didn't address the package, or take it to the express office.”

For a long moment, Hardiston regarded him, his neatly shaven face unexpressive. “He could have addressed it the night before, and his confederates could have expressed it.”

“Man,” Seay said with tolerant patience, “I'm only trying to keep you from facing Bonal for it. Take your choice.”

“I'll go,” Hardiston said finally. “Thank you, Seay.”

Seay walked off. He paused in midstride and came back to Hardiston, who was standing motionless. “Why did you do it?” Seay asked, his voice kindly.

“For a lot of money,” Hardiston murmured and walked off toward the office.

Chapter Seven

Stole's opera house, a bravely painted board affair of some three stories and a gingerbread front, witnessed immortality that night. To a gold camp, starved for music and ignorant of her technique, Adelina Patti sang for two hours. It was all in good humor, but these rough miners who jammed the house from pit to gallery would not let her go. If her reluctance to sing encores was known to them, as it was to the theater of New York and Chicago, they ignored it and called her back. Time and again she stood and stamped her foot in refusal to sing again, and time and again they made her. Her dark, chiseled beauty was like a wine of her own Latin country, fiery and proud, and these rough men hungered for a sight of it and for her voice. At last she gave in and sang for another hour, and perhaps, because it was in waltz-time, they shook the building with their applause for her “Fior de primavera,” not a word of which they understood. When it came time for her “Home, Sweet Home,” which countless times had thrilled less sentimental audiences than this, its lyric message was so moving that pandemonium let loose. The miners howled down Dan Stole each of the twenty-five times he appeared in front of the curtain to tell them Patti had left. A group of tearful Italian miners in the front row made the first considerate move to go. They were jeered wildly, but it served to break up the evening, and reluctantly the house started to empty.

Sharon and Hugh and Charles Bonal walked the few doors from the opera house to the hotel and went upstairs.

Sharon was first into the room, and as she stepped over the sill she stopped abruptly. Phil Seay stood before the chair he had just risen from, his pipe in his hand, looking taller than usual in his black clothes.

Charles Bonal said over Sharon's shoulder, “Been here long, Phil?” and Sharon stepped reluctantly into the room.

“A few minutes.”

All three were in the room now, and Charles Bonal turned to Hugh. “I believe you two have met,” he said dryly.

Hugh laughed and put his hand out to Seay. “I believe we have, although the meeting wasn't official.”

Seay said, “How are you, Mathias?”

“Considerably more at ease than when I last left you.”

Bonal was laughing at this as Sharon swept past them down the hall. Bonal caught the maid before she disappeared and said, “Bring whisky and ice, Sarita.” To Hugh and Seay he said, “Sit down. I'll be with you in a moment, Phil,” and he followed Sharon. She was waiting at the door of her room, and she beckoned him in and closed the door and said vehemently, “Dad, he's not going with us!”

“Who said he was?” Bonal showed surprise.

“But why is he here?”

“I asked him.” He grinned into his beard, then laughed bluntly at his daughter. She had barely mentioned to him Seay's refusal to give her money for Maizie, but he guessed how her pride had suffered. Always unable to refuse her anything himself, he delighted to see another man tame her, for he was not completely blind to the fact that Sharon must learn someday that other people besides herself possessed a will. Hugh was not much help in this department. Right now, Bonal could not precisely understand her agitation. Her face had lost some of the calm loveliness it had when she was listening to Patti, and there was quite genuine anger in her eyes. Inside the fragile white beauty of her dress, her slim body was taut. Bonal took her hands now, and his face sobered.

“Here, child,” he said gruffly. “Can't a man ask his own friends up for a drink before a party?”

“I suppose.” Sharon's voice was nicely controlled.

“If you can't tolerate him, I won't ask him any more. Tonight, I wanted to give you two young folks some time to yourselves,” he said more gently. “Seay was going out to Maizie's, and I thought I'd take him. Besides that, I like him.”

“I don't. He's—” She was going to say “insulting,” but she knew it would anger her father into demanding definite proof, and the proof she gave him would make him roar with his rough laughter.

“He's what?”

“He's not a gentleman!”

“No, thank the lord,” Bonal sighed. “He's a man, though, and that's something much rarer. He's a man who can't be licked.”

“But Dad, you picked him up off the streets!” Sharon protested. “You put a lot of faith in character. Do you know his?”

“Better than I know Hugh's,” Bonal replied quickly, “and that's no reflection on Hugh.”

“But a gambler, a tough!”

“I recollect I was a swamper in a St. Louis barroom once,” Bonal said dryly. “I even banked faro—and worse than Seay did.”

Sharon dropped her gaze and walked away from him. Bonal's face was vaguely troubled as he raised his hand to the doorknob. “He won't bother you, my dear.” Tentatively he made his suggestion. “Have you ever tried treating him with less of a high hand?”

Sharon whirled, her skirts billowing, but when she saw that her father was serious, she choked down her protest and considered. “No, I hadn't. I really didn't ever dream I'd be forced to associate with him.”

“And why wouldn't you associate with him?” Bonal asked testily.

“I don't know. All your superintendents before this were—were not our sort of people. Oh, I don't mean they weren't all right, but we didn't entertain them. They were like workmen.”

Bonal winced inwardly, but he only said, “Aren't his manners all right?”

“When he wants them to be.”

“Doesn't he dress right?”

Sharon nodded. “I thought he looked remarkably handsome tonight,” she said frankly.

“That's better,” Bonal said quietly. “He's presentable, in other words. And now the only complaints outstanding are that you dislike him and that he's a workman, which he is. The first is your own business. The second is snobbishness. So”—he smiled again—“I can't respect your judgment in this case.” He opened the door and winked at her. “The Old Man has spoken—and as usual to deaf ears.”

Sharon made a face at him and then laughed, and they were both in good humor as he left. In his own room, he changed his shoes, wondering at the ways of his daughter, rose from the bed and walked over to a box of cigars which lay open on the table. Reluctantly, he emptied his breast-coat pocket of a rank of black, squat cigars, and filled it again with these slim, light-colored ones from the box—his lone concession to mixed company. He got a soft hat and went out to the parlor, where Seay and Hugh were talking. He took Seay and went out.

Comber's house, seen from the ridge, was a blaze of lights in all three stories. A great rank of carriages almost blocked the drive, for this was one of the Comber parties, and not to be treated lightly.

Ben, sheepish in an emergency butler's uniform, took their hats in the foyer, and the solemn wink that Seay gave him was a slight compensation for the indignity of trading a stable full of quiet horses for a house full of noisy people.

Maizie and Abe Comber were receiving in the huge doorway, in the rooms beyond which most of the guests were assembled. Maizie was wearing a dress of rich purple silk, and on her ample bosom was a huge diamond pendant that almost vied with the brilliance of the crystal chandelier behind her. The hand she extended to Seay was so beringed that it felt like a handful of metal. She said, “You go on in and get a drink. You'll need it.”

Abe, true to Maizie's prediction, was wearing a soft unpleated shirt, and he eyed them and the company with a mild and expansive benevolence that smelled of rye whisky.