A Grave for Lassiter (24 page)

Those of the Northguard crew who had come with them, rode behind the buckboard Lassiter was driving so Melody wouldn't have to eat dust. A perfect night for an ambush, Lassiter was thinking. He drove with rifle within reach, but nothing happened.

When they got home, Melody said she was too wound up to sleep. She wanted to talk. Lassiter sat with her at the big table in the office and sipped the fresh coffee she had quickly made.

“That trouble between you and Vance tonight,” she said, putting down her cup. “I wish he'd go away. And stay away.”

“Seems he won't.”

“He's such a fool. I've told him I want nothing more to do with him.”

“Farrel's got him under his heel.”

“For what reason?” Then her gray eyes widened. “Or is it true, the ugly rumor I overheard tonight.”

“Don't listen to rumors, ugly or otherwise . . .”

“A rumor that he has been promised a large sum of money to . . . to eliminate someone. Could that someone possibly be you?” She ended in a gasp.

“I told you, don't listen to things like that. It's just talk. Nothing else.” She had enough on her mind already without adding worry for him to the burden.

“You take it all so lightly. You're even smiling.” She leaned across the table to study him in the lamplight. A piece of kindling popped in the stove where she had heated the coffee.

“I just don't want you to get yourself upset. I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for a spell, you know.”

To change the subject, he asked about her girlhood. Her eyes suddenly had a distant look. “My mother denied me few things after my father died. She spoiled me terribly. But since she's been gone, I've adjusted. More or less.”

“Tell me about yourself. You speak well, so you've had some education.”

“Not much. But I had access to many books when I was growing up. What I read soaked into me, I guess.”

They talked on. It was long past midnight. A faint breeze whistled through a crack in the wall. He finally got the subject swung back to Northguard. Mainly to the Black Arrow Mine above Bluegate.

“I planned to have a talk with Dingell tonight about us getting a freight contract. But that damned sheriff . . .” Lassiter's lips tightened. “Oh, never mind.”

“I suppose it had something to do with your trouble with Vance.”

“A little,” Lassiter admitted, but didn't go into detail. He stood up. “I've got to get to bed. I've got to get up early to take a load up to High Pass.

“But tomorrow is Sunday. You can stay in bed. She reached over and clasped his hands in hers. “Don't leave me tonight,” she whispered hoarsely.

“I'll be within shouting distance if you need me.”

“I want you closer than that. I want you . . . with me.”

He debated. Her Uncle Herm was probably on his way. And that meant that Lassiter, drifter, seeker of new horizons, would be out of her life. So why not? he asked himself.

“I won't leave you tonight,” he whispered.

“I swear my legs are made of India Rubber,” she said with a shaky laugh. “You'll have to carry me into the bedroom.”

He did, kicking the door shut behind him, lowering her gently to the bed.

“So much more comfort than that night under the wagon up on the mountain,” she said with a catch in her voice. “But I loved every minute of it.”

“So did I.” He went out and got the lamp and brought it into the bedroom. This time he locked the door, sat down and pulled off his boots.

“Take off my shoes for me, will you, Lassiter?” She lay spraddle-legged on the bed, her golden head turned on the pillow.

He did as she asked, then she whispered, “Now my stockings, my petticoat . . .”

His fingers flew to do her bidding, warm against her flesh. But he needed no further directions and in a space of seconds she lay gleaming upon the bed.

Chapter Twenty-five

At breakfast Monday morning he told her they should leave for Dingell's Black Arrow Mine. “If we move fast, we might grab a contract to haul his ore to Montclair. . . .”

“But isn't it closer to Bitterroot? They're building a smelter and stamp mill and I've heard they're going to accept outside business.”

“Closer, but steeper. I've been figuring the costs. We can freight Dingell's ore for nearly half of what it would cost him to make the haul into the mountains.”

He offered more details that he had worked out over the weekend. Then he suggested she don her prettiest dress for the visit to Dingell's mine.

“You just want to show me off,” she said with a dimpled smile.

“A lot to show off, believe me.” He kissed her lightly, which caused her to blush.

“But only you will ever see what I've really got to show off.” A new wickedness flashed into her gray eyes and she laughed and hugged his arm. “Oh, Lassiter, you've been so good for me.”

“You sew up that Dingell contract and it'll please your Uncle Herm when he gets here. . . .”

“If he ever does.” Her face fell. She looked up into Lassiter's dark face, at the abrasions that were nearly gone, the lips that had been so horribly mashed but were now almost back to normal. He'd have scars from the historic brawl to carry to his grave, but those that showed were minor. “I could never make it without you, Lassiter,” she said fervently.

Her words made him feel uncomfortable, for they alluded to a longtime commitment.

Lassiter went to get the buckboard. The light wagon that Vanderson had used the day he took Melody to Bluegate had never been returned. By now he had probably sold it.

They started out on a warm morning, Melody wearing a light coat over a yellow dress to keep off the dust. Set squarely on her pinned-up golden hair was a bonnet with a small feather that was only a slightly darker shade than her dress.

In the war, Bert Oliver had ridden shotgun for a mail wagon in the Confederate Army, but today he was doing it for the couple in the Northguard buckboard.

Mostly that morning on the long drive, Melody talked of plans for the future, her voice warm. She hoped they could take some of the money from the Dingell business, if they were lucky enough to get it, and build a house at Aspen Creek.

“Better yet,” Lassiter cut in coldly, “take back the house your Uncle Josh built in Bluegate.”

“But Farrell owns it now,” she exclaimed, turning in the wagon seat to squint at him against the sun.

“Farrell stole it, you mean.”

She gave a little sigh and threw the coat off her shoulders, for the day was warming. She pushed up the sleeves of the dress. Her forearms were smooth and round. When he thought of them crossed at his back, he grew tense. The road here cut through a heavy stand of pines like a twisting snake, to avoid outcroppings and the shoulders of the many hills. Off the road there was plenty of seclusion. The back of his neck grew warm when thinking of them together in the shade of those tall pines. If only Bert Oliver wasn't plodding along behind the wagon on his gray horse. Well, it was his own fault for insisting the southerner accompany them. He had wanted someone at his back in case they ran into trouble. And it was just as well, he reminded himself as he began to calm. One less memory for them both to digest before the inevitable parting.

Soon they were approaching the road that led to Dingell's mine that dead ended at the big warehouse Josh Falconer had built and which was now owned by Farrell. Melody must have been thinking of it because she spoke of the hectic period when Lassiter was presumed to be in his grave.

“Farrell kept putting papers in front of me and I foolishly signed my name,” she said, a note of despondency in her voice. “But I trusted him.” Her voice tightened. “I hadn't realized what a snake he is.”

“And with Vance Vanderson buzzing in your ear it only made the world even more confusing.”

“Don't you worry about him, my darling.” She gripped his right wrist with her two hands. She had surprisingly strong fingers for one so young. “I intend to divorce him. And I don't care if every woman in the county snubs me because of it. I can hold my head up with you at my side.”

He made a left turn where the Black Arrow Mine road ended only forty feet or so from the north wall of the warehouse. Glancing at the sprawling structure, Lassiter found it hard to imagine it jammed with a bloodthirsty crowd, most of whom had come to see a battle to the death. Even he had to admit that with two men against one, it was a miracle he had survived.

The mine road began to climb abruptly. It was narrow and straight as a string up the mountain, to where the mine was a mere dot in the distance.

A hundred yards from the warehouse, a creek that paralleled the road all the way from the mine made a sweeping right angle to drop over a low granite cliff and spill into a narrow valley.

From what he had heard, Lassiter could believe that cloudbursts in the mountains above the mine could turn the creek as well as the road itself into a raging river. He was beginning to see evidence of the last storm that had washed around large rocks to expose them for as much as ten inches in places above the normal roadbed. It made the uphill climb even harder. Shod hooves and wheel rims clattered over the stretches of bare rock.

“You coming all right, Bert?” Lassiter called back.

“The road to hell couldn't be much worse'n this one.”

“This road'll be rough on the wagons,” Lassiter mused as the buckboard wheels dipped into the wide depression dug by the creek where it made its sweeping turn. Wheels rattled over rocks and dripped water as he urged the team up a steep bank and onto the road once again. At times the buckboard tilted sickeningly when encountering a higher ledge of exposed stone. Melody hung on gamely to a seat brace and did not cry out.

At last they reached the mine entrance. Lassiter hopped down and helped Melody out of the wagon. She kept her face close to his, her feet swinging in the air as he spun her around and set her down.

“On the way back,” she whispered. “Oh, if Bert Oliver wasn't along.” She gave him a wicked smile.

Lassiter tied the team to a stump near the edge of a great pile of tailings. Oliver dismounted and stretched his long bony arms. “You go ahead,” he said. “I'll water the hosses.”

Taking Melody's hand, Lassiter climbed with her up a path through the tailings and to a long platform, the length of two freight wagons. Just down from the mine tunnel was a rather large lean-to built against the side of the mountain. Lassiter walked down, but there was no one inside.

It took five minutes or so, calling into the maw of the mine tunnel before Brad Dingell finally shouted, “Coming,” his voice faint in the distance.

While waiting for Dingell to appear, they looked around. From this elevation, Bluegate, spread out below, looked like a child's miniature city. The people scurrying about were mere dots. Smoke from many chimneys spread a faint haze over the diminutive buildings.

“Looks like an ant hill from here,” Melody said.

“Remember your speech now,” Lassiter reminded. “I'll let you handle everything.” They had gone over what she was supposed to say to Dingell.

“But I want you to help me. . . .”

“Show Dingell how smart you are. I think it's important.”

“But why?”

“There's enough sour talk about a woman running a freight line. Show 'em you can do it, Melody.”

By then they could hear Dingell's footsteps echoing from the tunnel.

When Dingell appeared and saw Melody, he flushed with embarrassment at his appearance. He wore work clothes and he needed a shave. A smudge of dirt was on one cheek.

“If I'd known a pretty lady was calling on me I'd have spruced up.” He and Lassiter shook hands. “Where'd you two disappear to at the dance?”

“We had a long ride ahead of us,” was all Lassiter said on the subject.

“Reckon you're here about the freight contract,” he said slyly.

“Melody Vanderson has all the details,” Lassiter said.

“If I may be so bold as to compliment you, ma'am, that's a purty dress. Mighty purty.”

Melody thanked him, flushing slightly at the compliment.

“I'd ask you inside,” Dingell waved a square hand toward the lean-to. “But it's a boar's nest.”

“Bachelor quarters usually are,” Melody said with a warm smile.

Dingell laughed. He was shorter than Lassiter by an inch, with broad shoulders and sturdy legs. He wore high-laced miner's boots.

Under an overhang was a table and benches where Dingell took his meals when the weather was decent, as he put it. They sat in the shade. For a few moments Melody seemed ill at ease until Lassiter gave her a nudge. Then she handed Dingell a sheet of paper with their estimate of costs to haul the Black Arrow ore up to the stamp mill at Montclair. In a clear voice she explained how it would be cheaper than using the closer but steeper route to the Bitterroot Mine.

He scanned the paper, but seemed more interested in Melody than the figures she had presented. Lassiter was faintly amused because Dingell was so obviously taken with Melody. Well, why not? he asked himself. And Melody apparently found him pleasant. In talking, they found they had something in common, for Dingell had lived in Westport, where Melody and her mother had lived for a time.

“You've got a good head on your shoulders for a female,” Dingell said, “Not meanin' any disrespect,” he added quickly. “But most of 'em are kinda light in the head. Ain't that so, Lassiter?”

But Lassiter only spread his hands; they could take from that any answer they wanted.

Dingell insisted on fixing them a noon meal. Melody was agreeable. She seemed to be enjoying herself in the clear air, with the splendid view of Bluegate at the foot of the mountain. Lassiter called Bert Oliver to join them. He and Dingell shook hands.

Dingell got a chunk of roast beef from a root cellar, sharpened a knife and sliced enough meat for sandwiches, then sliced what was left of a loaf of bread. Melody pitched in to help. She seemed relaxed around Dingell, which Lassiter took as a good sign.