A Grave for Lassiter Read online

  She came to the big warehouse they used to own, and shuddered at the memory of things gone wrong. Behind the warehouse was Black Arrow Road that led to the mine of the same name. Straight up the mountain it went without even so much as a slight bend or curve. The mine owner, a man named Dingell, had asked her to the school dance. He was a pleasant looking man of thirty or so who worked industriously on his property. But she had been forced to decline his invitation. It would be unseemly for her, as a married woman, to accept.

  She was just tying her horse to a rack when Kane Farrell stepped from the saloon and came strutting along the walk in a fine gray suit. The sight of him turned her stomach for more reasons than one.

  She would never forget the day she and Vance had come to town for supplies and seen the crowd along Pine Street. A gangly buck-toothed man in his early twenties was berating Farrell about something. They stepped to the middle of the street.

  “That’s the Texas Kid,” she overheard a man say. “It’ll be the end of Farrell.” God, she hoped so.

  But it wasn’t. Farrell’s first shot knocked the kid down. Farrell wasn’t satisfied and walked up and pumped three more bullets into the man writhing in the street.

  Such a display sickened her, not that she wasn’t already heartily sick of Kane Farrell.

  She realized with a sinking heart that on this blustery morning, Farrell was coming toward her. She already felt the impact of his green eyes. She had half a mind to ride back home and forget her business here, but she was determined to stay and brazen it out.

  She was standing in front of the sheriff’s office when Farrell hurried up. His hat came off so she could see the wavy dark red hair that was said to fascinate some women. Well, certainly not her, nor was she impressed by his ingratiating smile.

  “I suggest we have a cup of coffee together,” Farrell was saying smoothly, “and talk a little business like good friends. . . .”

  “Good friends,” she snapped, remembering the ugly wound in Dad Hornbeck’s shoulder.

  He put a hand on her elbow, but she pulled away. His eyes turned her cold, as if ice had touched her bare flesh.

  She quickly marched toward the tall oak doors with “Sheriff’s Office” etched in the thick glass, which was done at a time the town was seeking to make an impression when there had been talk of a railroad. But that dream had become as dead as yesterday when the rail line was built nearly a hundred miles north of Bluegate. All the townsmen had to show for the brief flirtation with power was a rather ornate headquarters for the law on the first floor, and a six-cell jail on the second.

  Sheriff Bo Dancur was in shirtsleeves, chewing a cold cigar. His round face, which always seemed oily, looked faintly annoyed when Melody walked in. He got ponderously to his feet and put on a coat.

  “From the look on your face,” the sheriff said, “it ’pears you got important business.” His chuckle disturbed rolls of fat that he tried to cover by buttoning a brown coat. He waved her to a chair, then turned to the door. “Be with you in a minute, Kane.”

  Melody whipped around, her earlobes burning. Farrell, completely unruffled, a smile on his rather handsome face, was taking a chair by the door.

  “As long as Mr. Farrell apparently wants to listen to my complaint, let him.” Melody’s eyes snapped.

  “Melody, Melody,” Farrell said with an exaggerated shake of the head.

  “Sheriff, I’m being harrassed. A certain person is trying to drive me out of business. And that party is sitting right over there,” she said, pointing at Kane.

  When Farrell started to speak, the sheriff said, “Let the lady have her say, Kane. It’s best that way.”

  Anger gushed out of Melody, as she recited all the sneaky tricks that Farrell had played on her. She spoke of the wagons put out of commission and how when they were put back in service, something else was bound to happen. She talked about the employees she thought were disloyal and had fired. But the mischief didn’t abate. Hay had burned, some of her mules had come up lame.

  Dancur lifted bushy brows. “You got proof of all this?”

  “Of one vile act, I do have proof. Dad Hornbeck was set upon by some men. He was shot by one of them. The assailant was Ed Kiley.”

  “Kiley works for Mr. Farrell,” the sheriff said quickly, “and Mr. Farrell wouldn’t allow such a thing.”

  “Dad Hornbeck saw him plain as day. I want Kiley arrested.” Melody’s jaw trembled.

  “Wa’al now . . .”

  “It’s a wonder he wasn’t killed.”

  “Kiley hasn’t worked for me in some weeks,” Farrell said smoothly. “I doubt if he’s turned to holding up freight outfits. But anything is possible, I suppose.”

  Dancur looked grave. “I’ll keep an eye open for Kiley, ma’am. Is there anything else?”

  “I thought perhaps I’d get some satisfaction today. But I see I won’t.” Melody got stiffly to her feet.

  Bo Dancur stood up out of politeness to a lady. “Was I you, ma’am, if you ever have reason to make another complaint, I figure it’s your husband who oughta do it.” Melody’s face started to redden. “He . . . he . . . well, it doesn’t matter,” she finished in embarrassment. A lock of golden hair fell across her brow. She blew it away with a puff of air.

  “Far as that goes,” the sheriff continued, “you oughta put the runnin’ of your freight line into your husband’s hands.”

  “My hands are as capable as his.”

  “You oughta put on an apron an’ stay to home, Mrs. Vanderson.”

  “I agree to that,” Farrell chimed in. “Running a freight line in the mountains can be a tough way to make a dollar. Especially for a woman.”

  “You’re right, Kane. Too dangerous for a female.”

  “I even offered to take the company off her hands,” Farrell said, standing up, “so she could move to civilization and live like a white woman.”

  “Steal it from me, you mean.” Melody’s voice was on edge. “And because I refused to sell, you’re trying to drive me out of business.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Vanderson,” Dancur objected. “You shouldn’t go around accusin’ a fine, upstanding citizen of our county like Kane Farrell.”

  “Three thousand dollars he offered.” Tears of anger glistened in the light gray eyes. “If that isn’t stealing, I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “Seems to me, three thousand dollars is better’n nothin’,” said the sheriff, but Melody had stormed out, slamming the door.

  “You better keep Kiley outa sight a few days,” Dancur suggested. “Till the little lady cools down.”

  “Cooling her down is what I’d like to do in my bed.” “She’s got a husband, don’t forget,” Dancur reminded.

  “I know for a fact he’s run out on her. Gone up to Denver.”

  “Likely couldn’t stand her sharp tongue.”

  Through the window Farrell watched Melody ride off down the street. A fine figure of a female. “I’ll make an obedient filly out of her before I’m through,” Farrell said lightly, smoothed down the dark red wavy hair and put on his hat.

  Chapter Eight

  For some minutes that evening Lassiter struck matches so he could study the names on gravestones and headboards in the Bluegate Cemetery. Finally it came to him that he would not lie among the upstanding citizens of the area. He searched and found that section known as boot hill, apart from the rest, where the notorious lay buried.

  A wry smile struck his lips when at last he found what he was looking for. His name had been carved on a plank of wood. They hadn’t known the date of his birth, so had left it blank. But the date of his death, October of last year, was inscribed on the rough board.

  Curiosity had prompted him to have a look at his own grave. Down at Rio Bueno he had heard talk of the Lassiter grave. He very well knew the risks. Those who wanted him dead would try and make sure of the job next time.

  A man called sharply from the road, some twenty yards away. “What you doin’ in there?�
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  Lassiter straightened up and saw two mounted men, blobs of shadow in the moonlight. They had come up silently along the road, hooves of their horses muffled by mud from the evening shower.

  “Just passing through, amigo,” Lassiter replied in Spanish.

  “Only a damn Mex.” It was a heavier voice than the first one. “Let’s get on out to the ranch.”

  “Not so fast, Barney. That’s Lassiter’s grave, sure as hell.”

  “How can you tell . . . ?”

  “It’s away from the others. I oughta know. I give Kiley a hand when he was diggin’ it. Go take a look. I’ll cover you.”

  “Oh, for crissakes, Pete. Farrell expects us out to the ranch.”

  Lassiter wondered, what ranch? as he eased a hand toward his gun. Six months ago Farrell had owned no spread. But his greedy hands had evidently acquired one in the interim.

  Lassiter swore at himself. He should have been more careful about lighting matches out here. But it was a lonely stretch of road leading only to Borodenker’s Twin Horn outfit, some eleven miles distant. And Borodenker kept a tight rein on his crew; they were seldom in town.

  As the two horsemen argued, Lassiter stood very still, a faint breeze rustling his full beard.

  “You mean you figure he’s alive?” the man called Barney said incredulously. “Lassiter alive?”

  “Drifter come through the other day. I never said nothin’, but he claimed he seen Lassiter down at Rio Bueno. I figured he was crazy, but now I dunno. . . .”

  “Lassiter’s dead,” Barney said.

  “Might be Lassiter there wantin’ a look at his own grave.”

  Lassiter recognized one of the voices now. Barney Cole, a gunhand who had been hanging around Bluegate six months back.

  “Go take a look,” Pete said. Lassiter felt the short hairs twitch at the back of his neck, as Barney dismounted.

  Barney Cole opened the cemetery gate and came tramping in Lassiter’s direction. Of all times, Lassiter wanted no confrontations. But he was trapped in the open, in the moonlight.

  Cole halted by a large gravestone some fifteen feet away. “Step over here, Mex. Wanta look at you.”

  “No unnerstan’,” Lassiter muttered and started to back away slowly.

  “He don’t speak English, I reckon,” Barney Cole shouted back to Pete who still sat in his saddle. “He’s no more Lassiter than I am.”

  “Bring him down here!”

  Cole swore. He threw a large shadow partly because of a bulky blanket coat. “All right, you, git down by the road.” Cole jerked a thumb in that direction.

  And then he seemed to realize Lassiter had been easing away from him. He lunged and got a firm grip on Lassiter’s left arm. But Lassiter pulled it away. At the same time he drove a powerful right against Cole’s jaw. Cole’s knees started to sag.

  Believing that escape was the smartest move under the circumstances, Lassiter turned to run toward the spot where he had left his black horse. At that moment the moon chose to slip behind thick clouds. It was suddenly as black as a stormy midnight. In his pounding run, Lassiter failed to see the crumbling upper half of a fancy tombstone lying in the path. His right foot cleared it, but the left caught a corner of an angel’s wing. He sprawled headlong, jarring the breath from his body.

  A gun roared at his back. He cringed, for it was such a shot that had taken him down in the mine tunnel. This one missed. It smashed into the angel’s wing. A bit of plaster stung Lassiter’s cheek.

  “Bastard sneaked a punch on me!” Cole roared. “But I got him!”

  Before Barney Cole could get set for another shot, Lassiter flung himself aside. His .44 roared just a shade before Cole’s second shot. Lassiter aimed for one of the thick legs, but the man had had the bad judgement to lean over as he lunged. His scream knifed above the thunder of the two guns—a scream that reminded Lassiter of a wolf in pain.

  A carbine opened up from the road. Because of the sudden lack of moonlight, all Lassiter had to go on was the muzzle flash. He fired as a second bullet from Pete’s rifle struck a headboard to Lassiter’s left.

  Suddenly Pete spun his horse and put it to a hard gallop along the road. Just like Kane Farrell, Lassiter was thinking as he tried to spot the fleeing rider in the dark, refusing to buck odds not strongly in his favor. Sounds of hoofbeats were fading in the still night air as Lassiter walked toward Cole. The man was trying to reach out for the gun he had dropped.

  “Don’t make me put another hole in you, Barney,” Lassiter warned.

  Cole, lying on the ground, jerked back his head. “You ain’t no Mex.”

  “You and Pete alone out here?”

  “Yeah.” Cole’s chest was heaving as he fought for breath. “Who . . . who are you?” he managed to get out.

  “Lassiter.”

  “But he’s dead!”

  “Not quite!” Lassiter picked up Cole’s gun and stuck it in his own waistband. Then he looked closely at the man. The front of the blanket coat was soggy with blood. The bullet had splintered Cole’s collarbone, from what Lassiter could tell in the dim light. In the bent position Cole had assumed, the bullet had been deflected into the chest.

  “Where you been all this time?” Cole gasped. “Hell, it was back last fall when you was . . . .”

  “Killed,” Lassiter supplied when Cole ran out of wind. The night brightened as the moon left the cloudbank.

  “Who . . . who the hell got buried instead of you?”

  “Ed Kiley still around?”

  “Big a blowhard as ever. Why?”

  “How about Dutch Holzer?”

  “He . . . he aint’ been seen since the day you . . . you got it.”

  “Likely it’s Holzer in my grave.”

  “Naw,” Cole gasped. “Kiley claims Holzer run out on him. With Kiley’s half of the money Farrell . . .” Cole broke off.

  “Paid them to kill me? Is that what you were going to?”

  say?”

  “What . . . what you aim to do with me, Lassiter?”

  “Use your shirt for a bandage. Tie you to the saddle, then ride you to Doc Overmeyer’s”

  “You’re a white man, Lassiter.” There was a gurgling in Cole’s voice. Blood in the throat, Lassiter guessed. He was straining to hear any sound of hoofbeats in case Pete returned with reinforcements. Even though Pete had ridden off in the direction of Twin Horn, to the west and south, he might have doubled back to town after a mile or so.

  Cole had a sudden surge of energy. “Let’s you an’ me dig up Holzer. If he’s really in your grave, he’s got the gold on him. . . .”

  “No hombre ever got buried with money in his pocket. Somebody got it before then.”

  “Two thousand dollars, so Kiley claims. We’ll split it, then you git me to the doc. . . .”

  “Two thousand is what Farrell figured my scalp was worth?”

  “He’ll likely pay more’n that to git you next time.” Cole’s voice was growing weaker.

  “Who’s this Pete you were with?” Lassiter wanted to know.

  “Works with me out at Farrell’s Twin Horn.”

  “Old man Borodenker owned Twin Horn. How’d Farrell get it?”

  But the question went unanswered. Barney Cole was dead.

  Lassiter had a sour taste in his mouth. On his first night back he’d been forced to kill a man. Only because he’d been curious about his own grave. He left Cole where he lay, but did unsaddle the man’s horse down on the road and turn it loose. The animal, in Lassiter’s judgement, was more deserving than its late, renegade owner.

  As he rode toward the haze of Bluegate lights, he wondered what Roma was doing this night. Perhaps by now she was back on the road with Doc and Rex. He hadn’t wanted to leave her behind, but it couldn’t be helped. Returning to Bluegate was like entering a cave filled with rattlesnakes. No matter where you stepped, there was danger. Above all, after what she had done for him over the past months, he couldn’t end it all by risking her life.

  A g
entle breeze was blowing down from Northguard Pass as he entered town, carrying with it the perfume of spring flowers, the tang of chaparral. The boardwalks were crowded and the streets choked with wagons, buggies, and saddlehorses. Small boys hooted and hollered in games of their own. The three-quarter moon was unblemished at last by clouds. It gilded the rocks high on a mountain known as Las Casitas, crowned with boulders the size of small houses, named by the Spanish early in the last century.

  Voices were everywhere, boots and women’s slippers scraped on the walks. Doors slammed at business establishments. A woman’s trilling laughter, a man’s shout as a high-stepping saddler nearly ran him down, the creak of wagon wheels all filled the air.

  In his hurried trip north, Lassiter had lost all track of time, but he guessed it must be Saturday night because of all the activity. An unlucky night for one Barney Cole, who hadn’t wanted to investigate a transient in the town cemetery, but who had been talked into it by Pete Bromley. Such were the narrow margins between the living and the dead on the frontier.

  Lassiter shivered. He had witnessed so much killing in his lifetime. It was the reason he shied from marriage, not wanting a widow left behind because of the way he lived, always on the threshhold of danger. Nor would he allow himself a lasting relationship with a woman, even without marriage. If left alone, her tears would be as copious as any grieving widow’s. Some people thought him callous. Some, like Kane Farrell, hated him because he spoiled their game.

  By now, Herm Falconer should be running the freight line, his leg wound finally healed. At least his niece would be relieved of that responsibility. With Herm to watch over her, Lassiter was sure the girl could resist Vance Vanderson’s charms.

  Thinking of Vance made him clench his teeth. Vanderson deserved a good punch in the nose for fleeing like a coward that day up at the mine. Perhaps by now Herm had gotten a tighter rein on his stepson.

  After the business out at the graveyard, he needed a drink. He left his horse at the crowded rack in front of the Bluegate Mercantile. Perhaps less conspicuous than if he tied it at the saloon hitchrack, he was thinking.