A Grave for Lassiter (19 page)

“I got him, Farrell!” the burly Ukase yelled.

“Good work!” Farrell came riding up, Brimmer behind him.

Ukase and Brimmer boosted Lassiter into the saddle of the black horse Farrell had led up. They slammed him down so hard on the saddle that Lassiter gave a grunt of pain. It brought an ugly smile to Farrell's lips.

“You bastard,” he cried. “You don't even know what pain is . . . yet!”

A swelling rumble of voices was pouring from the big warehouse. At the end of the street, straight as a string, the road up the mountain to the Black Arrow Mine was a scar in the bright sunlight. A thread of smoke at the mine vanished into cloud cover.

All around the warehouse were stacks of lumber and crates and barrels of merchandise to be freighted by Farrell's wagons. They were moved out to clear the vast interior for the crowd of spectators, come to witness the “fight of the century,” as one man was yelling exuberantly.

At the entrance Lassiter was hauled from the saddle. Ukase had him by one arm, Brimmer the other. Farrell was behind, giving Lassiter an occasional shove toward the building.

A man stepped from the crowded warehouse, saw the quartette approaching on foot and ducked back inside. “Lassiter's almost here, boys!” he shouted, which brought a cheer from the crowd.

Another man gave Lassiter a broad wink. “I bet that you can do it. I seen you fight before an' I know you can whip 'em both!”

“
Two
men?” Lassiter yelled above the excited voices.

The speaker, Ben Haley, looked surprised. “Hell, you put up a thousand dollars that you could beat them two hombres Shanagan dug up!”

“That's enough, Haley!” Farrell barked. Haley's jaw dropped at the reprimand.

“Never meant nothin', Mr. Farrell, I only . . .”

Over big double doors, now wide open, the sign FARRELL FREIGHT LINES seemed the final mockery to a battered Lassiter.

A sea of excited faces greeted Lassiter as he was shoved into the oversize building. In the center was a cleared space but around it men were packed solidly as minnows in a bottle.

Those nearest the door gaped at Lassiter with wrists and arms roped, held by two of Farrell's men. And Farrell, elegantly attired, with polished nails and a fresh white shirt, now being sweated into, which no doubt displeased the man.

“Why's he tied?” several men chorused.

“Lassiter tried to back out of his bet!” Farrell said loudly so as to reach every ear in the vast audience.

“Liar!” Lassiter shouted, his face an angry red.

“We hauled him off his horse just as he was about to leave town!” Farrell went on.

This brought an instant roar of disapproval from the crowd. Bottles were tilted. There was a sharp odor of alcohol in the air that was stained from dust and sweat and tobacco smoke.

Lassiter raised his voice to be heard, but couldn't compete against the tumult. It seemed as if the high ceiling with its heavy rafters and walls of raw lumber fairly bulged from the raucous sounds. Men were jammed back against the walls, the shorter ones kneeling or sitting on the floor.

“It was your idea, Lassiter!” a bearded man shouted angrily and shook a fist in his face. “I never believed it possible, but now I figure this Lassiter's got a yellow streak down his back as wide as a mule's ass!”

This was followed by a roar of approval.

“Watch the doors, boys, so he doesn't try and get away!” Farrell was yelling. “Shanagan's going to cut him loose!”

Shanagan produced a knife, stepped behind Lassiter and began sawing at ropes that bound arms and wrists. “Wish to hell I'd never gone along with this, Lassiter,” could barely be heard above the surge of voices. The ropes fell away. Returning circulation sent icy needles along the arms and shoulders.

“Blackshear's got the first round!” Farrell shouted, caught up now in the fever of the place, the raw smell of sweat and whiskey. “Jody Marsh takes the second, and so on. Still not too late to put your money on Lassiter.”

There were no takers. Farrell laughed. Those who had had the bad judgement to bet on Lassiter in the first place merely glared, having no doubt now that they were losers.

Lassiter stared along an aisle through the bodies where Blackshear appeared. This followed by a mighty roar that seemed to threaten the roof. Jody Marsh was pounding an encouraging hand on Blackshear's back.

The size of the two men grinning together was awesome. Rage ripped through Lassiter as his eyes met with Farrell's. He started to lunge forward, but a phalanx of bodies blocked him. As the swelling roar increased, Lassiter looked wildly for an exit he might use. Damned if he was going to stand here and let not one man but two beat him into the floor. As all attention was focused now on the advancing Blackshear, who was flexing the muscles of his enormous shoulders, Lassiter spun. He made a grab for the revolver at Brimmer's belt, but Ukase thrust out a leg. Lassiter sprawled over it. Before he could right himself, he was seized by many hands. Some men had him by the arms, others around the middle and the legs. Angrily he fought, shouting above the waves of sound that it was all a mistake, that he had never bragged that he could whip both men. It was a goddamned lie!

Only those in close were able to hear him above the bedlam.

“Turn him my way, boys!” Blackshear yelled, all sixfeet three-inches and two hundred and fifty pounds of bone and muscle.

And as the combined weight of many men swung Lassiter toward the giant challenger, Blackshear shot a fist at the jaw. Lassiter saw it coming, jerked his head so that knuckles only grazed a cheekbone.

“Turn him loose,” Farrell ordered. “It's him and Blackshear . . . for now!”

There were to be four minute rounds, it was agreed. Shrunken little Miegs, in his black undertaker's suit, was the timekeeper. In one hand he held a large gold watch.

“All right, you sons of bitches!” Lassiter started to peel off his shirt. But Blackshear leaped in and with a triumphant roar ripped the shirt from Lassiter's back.

Blackshear, already shirtless, showed off bulging muscles as he threw Lassiter's wadded up shirt into the crowd. Then he slammed a solid right to the breastbone. The force of the blow rattled Lassiter's teeth and another one knocked him back several steps. Hands reached out and shoved him back. A volcano of noise erupted from the crowd as Blackshear came roaring in, both fists swinging.

It seemed to the vociferous crowd that Blackshear was about to finish the fight before it had even gotten started. But Lassiter, amazingly light on his feet, spun away at the last possible moment. He landed two jolting lefts to the big man's exposed left side. Blackshear grunted and hunched over. Then they began hammering each other from one end of the clear space to the other. Dust from their shuffling feet rose from the floor in layers and drifted toward the rafters.

Finally in all the yelling, Lassiter heard the thin voice of the undertaker, “End of Round One!”

Lassiter made the mistake of turning his head when a three-legged stool was shoved under him. Blackshear took that moment to elbow him on the jaw. So much power was behind the blow that Lassiter felt it to his ankles. The blow produced another mighty uproar from the onlookers.

“Watch yourself there, Blackshear,” Farrell warned loudly; but with a trace of a smile. “We want this to be a fair fight!”

Lassiter wanted to laugh. Fair fight. The biggest joke of the century.

He sank to the stool and rinsed his mouth from a water bottle someone shoved on him. His nerves were raw. Farrell's treachery not only to him but to Melody was like a myriad of red hot splinters driven into the flesh. He had suffered a battering in the first round, he'd be the first to admit. His breathing was ragged and he tasted blood where the inside of his mouth had been cut on a tooth. Was it possible that the bullet fired into his back over six months before and the long convalescence that followed had drained him?

He caught sight of Kane Farrell through the crowd. The man was shoving thumbs into a wide belt. It left his coat open so that Lassiter glimpsed heel plates of a holstered revolver.

If he could lunge through the crowd, get his hand on the gun, ram it into Farrell's back and force the man to do his bidding, then the day might end well after all.

He got to his feet, eyes on Farrell, not ten feet away.

At that moment the reedy voice of the town undertaker was barely audible above the noise. “Round Two!” he shouted.

But before Lassiter could make his move toward Farrell, he caught a blur of movement from a corner of his eye. The crowd was going wild. Cheers for Jody Marsh, the big man Lassiter had tangled with up at the Glory Mine. No hard breathing for Marsh. He was fresh, wearing a spotless white shirt. A broad grin knifed across the heavy face. A man with more finesse than Blackshear's raw power, Lassiter had to admit.

They came together, Lassiter clinging to the front of the white shirt while he got his breath. Marsh kept trying to beat him off, but Lassiter had his chin tucked against the broad chest and refused to have his hold broken.

“I'm gonna beat you to your knees, then Blackshear'll finish it!” Marsh snarled and tried an underhand to the groin. Lassiter, however, had sensed his intentions and twisted aside. He hit the bigger man in the mouth, splitting both lips. Dazed and angered, Marsh rushed in. Lassiter took a blow high on the forehead, but one to the jaw rocked him.

He started backing. Vision in one eye blurred. Marsh seemed distant and almost ghostly, with incredibly long arms that punched him out of the blurry vagueness. His head felt as if it had been stepped on by a mule team. Another blow jarred his skull again. Another exploded his breath. Paralyzing pain enveloped him like a shroud. Somehow he fought his way back from the edge of blackness. A fist almost crumpled his nose, but not quite, for he was able somehow to jerk back his head in time. A fist landed viciously against his stomach. It seemed to him that the building tilted first one way, then the other and with it the banks of yelling sweated faces.

As Marsh paused to hitch up his pants, Lassiter swung hard at the slight paunch overhanging the belt. Air gushed from the man's lungs. He staggered. Lassiter caught him on the jaw with lefts and rights. The crowd was going mad as Marsh staggered.

“End of Round Two!” could hardly be heard above the roaring in the big warehouse.

Lassiter sank to his stool. He was getting the range of Marsh's jaw. A few more solid blows like the last pair Lassiter had landed and Marsh would be down. But Lassiter forgot about the change in combatants at each round.

A rested Blackshear loomed up, not even waiting till Lassiter got off the stool. He crashed into him with all the force of a runaway team. Lassiter grabbed Blackshear's forearms, slick with sweat and went over backwards, pulling Blackshear with him. Blackshear landed on top of him.

For just a moment his breath was gone. And then he recovered and began to hammer away at both kidneys. When Blackshear got him by the throat, Lassiter drove both arms upward between the hands, forcing them apart.

And in the same movement, Lassiter squirmed out from under the heavyweight, somersaulted on the floor and reached his feet. In the piercing din that followed, he felt heartened, despite himself. For some of the shouting was for him.

Blackshear bounded to his feet, rushed Lassiter again. From one end of the cleared space to the other they fought. A deep cut on Lassiter's right cheek made him aware of the warmth of his own blood. It trickled downward, soaking into the gout of black chest hair.

Lassiter danced back and as he got set for another rush by the larger man, he heard the squeaky voice of Miegs, the undertaker-timekeeper.

“Hell with it,” Lassiter heard him say above the noisy crowd. “Nobody pays no attention to me. Don't need rounds. I say let 'em fight it out. The winner is the one still on his feet!”

He grinned at Farrell, who gave him a nod of appreciation.

The words of the timekeeper had caused a fresh outburst from the spectators. The eyes of most of them glassy with excitement and whiskey. They seemed to sense that this day they were witnessing history in the making. Never before had one man the guts to challenge two bigger men as opponents. A sight to behold. The events of this day to be passed on down to great-grandchildren.

And as Miegs stepped back into the howling mob, Marsh swaggered up to hover at Lassiter's back while Blackshear began to hammer his midsection and jaw. But Lassiter cleverly managed to avoid the heat of most punches by twisting his body at just the right angle so that the power was lessened, and at times lost altogether.

“Hey, Shanagan!” one of the onlookers roared through cupped hands. “Ain't fair. Two men on one . . . and at the same time!”

“Shut up an' set down!” others cried.

Whatever reply Shanagan made was lost in the thunder of voices. Lassiter danced out of range of both men, pulling great draughts of air into his lungs. In the past, he had been hard-pressed at times to survive the brawny fists of tricksters. Now he was faced with not one, but two. He would have to make a bold move and quickly, because common sense told him he couldn't survive for long the onslaught of four fists beating on his body. What would happen if he lost consciousness? What then, a knife blade sneaked between the ribs? Boot heels crashing down on an exposed face? As this skipped across his mind, his ears were continually assaulted by wave after wave of the raucous voices of the aroused crowd.

Blackshear's knuckles against his jaw suddenly sent him reeling backward. He spat blood and kept backing, his mouth filled with blood and mucus. Marsh struck him on the back of the head. Each blow now sounded like the slap of wet canvas against a wall.

From beneath tangled black brows, Marsh stared at him in disbelief. “You ain't human!” Marsh yelled just before Lassiter broke his nose.

Despite himself, Lassiter tasted a raw edge of fear. Blackshear hit him a solid blow to the temple that set up a clanging, as if great bells rolled around inside his skull. As Lassiter reeled, Marsh clubbed him on the kidney. It was almost a paralyzing blow, but somehow Lassiter managed to twist aside, using elbows to fend off Blackshear while he got his bearings and some of his breath.