A Grave for Lassiter (28 page)

He stared out of the lean-to window. Bert Oliver and the two men had gone outside. Oliver, a rifle under his arm, was walking the length of the loading platform. Dingell's four miners were still unloading the lead wagon. One of them, stocky, with lank brown hair and a lazy eye, was loafing on the job. He seemed to be more interested in something at the far end of the platform than he was in the unloading. Well, a lazy worker was Dingell's problem, not his.

But on second thought he might speak to the mine owner before they left. Dingell was certainly entitled to a day's work from his men. Maybe he hadn't noticed this one and might appreciate having it called to his attention. On the other hand, he might not. He didn't know Dingell all that well. Although he seemed pleasant, tough when necessary, there was no guarantee that he might not get his feathers ruffled if someone tried to point out a deficiency in one of his men. He remembered the man now, Sam Allard, a drifter who did odd jobs around town.

As this was going through Lassiter's mind, he heard a man's sudden scream of pain and then heard Bert Oliver shout something. He saw Oliver take aim with his rifle.

Chapter Thirty

Vance Vanderson had made it to the top of the grade, just below the mine entrance, without being observed by anyone who counted. The only one who saw him was Sam Allard, the man Farrell had planted with the Black Arrow crew as a spy. Allard gave him a quick nod of the head, a guarded smile. Then he picked up a heavy packing case from the lead wagon and carried it to the end of the loading platform where other crates and barrels were being stacked. Two of the men were unloading lengths of steel rail for the narrow gauge Dingell intended to run from the mine to the foot of the grade in Bluegate.

Watching his chance, Vanderson at a crouching run left some sheltering pines and ducked under the tailgate of the last wagon without being spotted.

A large rock was tucked under the rim of the right rear wheel, next to the loading platform. Vanderson was surprised how easily he was able to remove it. He tossed it aside without thinking. Immediately the rock bounded down the road, sometimes soaring five feet into the air when it struck one of the slabs that had been uncovered by winter storms. He held his breath, wondering if the sudden descent of the rock would have been heard. But it wasn't, because Allard was tugging another crate out of the wagon, this one making a squealing sound as it was dragged over nailheads on the platform.

Quickly Vanderson ducked to the left rear wheel of the wagon, which was within kicking distance of the trees where he would take instant shelter. Grunting, he tugged at the slab of rock that blocked the wheel. This wasn't going to be so easy. With his hands he dug into the soft ground under it, then tried again. It gave slightly and the wagon moved an inch or so. Looking the length of the wagon, he could see that the end of the tongue resting on the ground had indeed moved. He froze. Had anyone else noticed it? But he heard no outcry.

Scrubbing a forearm across his sweated face, he returned to the wheel block. By working it in short tugs he was able to loosen it considerably. Here the ground was level with a barely perceptible slant until it reached the end of the steep road. He reached up with both hands, intending to give one mighty wrench, then leap aside as the wagon began to move.

Then he thought of his gun. Better to have it handy if somebody jumped him. He drew the .45 from his holster. A nearly new weapon he had bought for a few dollars from a drifter. He'd paid to have his initials etched in the grips, just in case the drifter had stolen the weapon and somebody tried to claim it.

He laid the gun on the ground by his knee. Taking a deep breath, he reached up to tug the big rock aside. Then, before the wagon gained momentum, he would duck into the trees, mount his horse and be off. Near as he could tell, the only other saddled horse at the mine was the one Lassiter rode. A fine animal. After Lassiter was done for, Vanderson intended to talk to Farrell about letting him have it.

If Lassiter tried to chase after him in the dense coverage of the pines, he was a dead man. The prospect of finishing Lassiter off brought a nervous smile under the mustache he was so proud of.

He was tugging and working the large rock. It was gradually inching out from under the heavy steel rim of the wheel. Anxious to get the job done, he cupped the fingers of his left hand around the top of the rock, while exerting pressure at the base with his right.

The rock moved farther than anticipated, out from under the wheel rim, but not to one side as he had intended. His right hand slipped off the base of the rock at the last moment. Before he could jerk his left hand out of the way, his fingers were trapped between the wheel and the rock. Terrible pain shot through him, more intense than any he had ever experienced. Somehow he managed to jerk the hand free as he nudged the rock aside in a desperate move with his knee.

In shock he stared at his mangled fingers as the wagon moved slightly. They were smashed, the ends flat and spurting blood. Dazedly he looked at the blood as great bursts of pain filled his mind. Then he realized he was screaming.

As the wagon began to move more freely he barely got his right leg out of the way before it was crushed by the heavy load.

Up on the platform, the screaming caused Bert Oliver to throw a rifle to his shoulder. Vanderson, still screaming hysterically, snatched up his revolver and fired up at the lanky Oliver. He never did know whether he hit the mark or missed, for at that moment something exploded in the brain. Mercifully his pain was suddenly gone with the flood of darkness that engulfed him.

Lassiter came pounding from the mine office, gun in hand. “What the hell happened?” he yelled at Oliver and then saw that all four wheels of the second wagon were turning as it reached the grade. It began to pick up speed.

Oliver was pointing at Vanderson crumpled near the loading platform. “Son of a bitch shot at me. I nailed him!”

Through the head, it looked like. “But that goddamn
wagon!”
Lassiter yelled.

“Too late, Lassiter,” Oliver said in a strained voice. “He worked the blocks out from under them wheels. An' practically right under my nose. My gawd! What'll happen when that wagon gits to town? . . .”

“If I can help it, it won't. I'm going after it!”

“Boss, you'll bust your neck!”

Dingell came charging from the office just as Sam Allard fired a pistol as he fled toward the trees. But the bullet clanged off the stack of steel rails instead of into Dingell.

Dingell cut loose. Allard, at a dead run, collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs. “That one I been wondering about, to tell the truth. Lassiter, where you goin'? . . .”

But his voice barely carried above the sudden thunderous roar as the runaway wagon, going backward, picked up momentum. It was now fifty feet down the grade and picking up speed every second. Almost hidden now by a great gout of dust raised by the tongue dragging behind.

Without even stopping to consider the hazards, Lassiter leaped into the saddle of his black horse, rammed in the spurs. At reckless speed he began to chase the rumbling monster of a wagon.

Sparks flew in the dusty haze as wheel rims struck the stretches of bare rock. Down, down raced the speeding wagon, straight as the arrow for which the mine above had been named. The roadbed was in a natural depression all the way down, with the sparkling creek on one side and thick pines and aspens on the other. On the left side was a man-made bank, erected to minimize the chances of the road being completely washed out whenever the creek overflowed. Even so, most of the top soil had been washed away during last winter's storms. Raging waters had found a natural conduit in the roadway when hard rains struck higher elevations.

A gust of wind tore off Lassiter's hat; it went sailing through the air like a black, wingless bird. Ends of black hair whipped his face. Wind tore at his eyes so that he had to squint to keep the racing wagon in view. His horse at a gallant run was gradually closing the gap. But at any second the animal could slip on bare rock and send them both to disaster. Somehow in the mad rush down the mountain it kept its feet. Mane and tail streamed out by the wind generated in the mad race to catch up to the runaway.

Once he thought the wagon would solve his problems by destroying itself. The left wheels struck a ledge of rock that had been uncovered by hard rains. It bounded high into the air, tipped at a dangerous angle that Lassiter was sure would send it crashing over the embankment and down into the creek. But somehow the speeding vehicle righted itself and continued the plunge down the mountain at dizzying speed.

When the wagon had tilted, Lassiter noticed the tongue fly high into the air as it struck an obstruction. Here a cacophony of sound beat at his eardrums as the wheels on the right side screamed along a stretch of rock and shale.

Wind sucked at his breath. Every muscle tense, he unhooked his catchrope, which was bouncing with the great lunges of the galloping horse. Bent over in the saddle, he shook out a loop. If he could time it just right when the end of the tongue went flying into the air, he might be able to rope it. And then send his horse either to the left or the right. It would turn the front wheels just enough to send the careening load either into the creek or smashing through the border of trees.

Again the tongue bounced when striking a rock. He shot out a loop. He missed. His heart lurched. He could taste bile. His throat was dry, his lips tasting like warm paper.

He tried again. Again he missed and hauled in his rope, being careful the speeding horse didn't trip on it.

Some distance ahead was the big dip in the road where the creek veered to the right. Pray to God that a wheel would be smashed on the rocks. Anything to break the deadly downward plunge that second by second was sending it hurtling toward the busy town.

Roma left the hotel by the alley door because she needed to stretch her legs. Tomorrow she would see the last of Bluegate. She wouldn't be sorry to leave. She had acted a fool over a man because of having fallen blindly in love. And when she thought he had spurned her for a slim blonde, she had turned to a man who was his enemy. Anything to disrupt his tranquil life with his new woman.

But she was the one who had paid the price for this folly. Lassiter had told her only an hour or so ago that the blonde meant nothing to him. Perhaps he was only trying to be kind. On the other hand, he had seemed sincere. Reaching the end of the alley, she hurried to cross the street so as not to be so conspicuous to the occasional passerby. As a veiled woman she was bound to cause comment, she well knew.

When she reached the west wall of the big warehouse, she began to slow and to relax. By the time she had walked clear around the big sprawling structure and returned to the hotel, she would have gotten the kinks out of her muscles. She had always been active and being cooped up in a small hotel room was like prison.

Her main objective in life now was to make peace with her father and her betrothed and get on with her life. For a time she had thought there might be a different life for her with Lassiter but that had only been a very bad dream. Lassiter was lucky to be rid of such a jealous fool.

As she neared the end of the warehouse, she could hear the voices of young boys. Often on previous walks from Farrell's house, she had seen them there lagging pennies against the large back wall of the building. Here they were more or less inconspicuous from adults who might frown at the gambling of boys so young.

As she turned around the north wall of the warehouse, she started toward the boys at the far end. They were laughing wildly and an older boy was trying to hush them.

They saw her coming and stared. A strange lady who limped slightly and wore a heavy veil so her face didn't show. A lady of mystery.

She had taken no more than three or four steps when she heard a sudden sound. A great rumbling—a chilling sound. It came from the direction of the mountain. She turned so she could look up the scar that was the road, straight as a line drawn in sand between two posts.

Far up the road she saw dust and something that caused her to utter a small cry of fear. Out of the dust came the rear end of a wagon travelling at tremendous speed. It was heading directly for the dozen or so young boys gathered at the far end of the wall.

Picking up her skirts, she began to run and to scream at the boys of the approaching danger.

In Shanagan's there was also a sudden awareness of the strange and distant rumble.

“Sounds like thunder,” Miegs the undertaker stated positively.

“No thunder like I ever heard,” Shanagan said from behind his bar, round head cocked at the increasing roar.

Kane Farrell, at the end of the bar with his bottle of Colonel's Choice, grabbed Rip Tolliver by the arm. Some of Tolliver's whiskey spilled. Farrell's green eyes bore a peculiar shine.

“If it's what I think it is,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

He drew Tolliver out of the saloon. “Be ready to jump when I yell,” Farrell said, and began to run toward Casitas Street and the warehouse.

Lineus Swallow, who had gone to the hotel to get a room, came out of the building and called to them. “What's that noise?” Everyone was turned now in the direction of the sound that seemed to be increasing by the second.

“Come along, Lin!” Farrell shouted. And Swallow came nimbly down the veranda steps and started running at Rip Tolliver's side. Farrell was slightly ahead, a tight grin stretched across his face.

From the sound, it seemed that Vanderson had fulfilled his mission. Bless him. And if Lassiter killed him, probably had, an indignant Swallow would say that Vanderson had been his friend, and demand satisfaction. Seconds later Lassiter would be dead in the dust.

Chapter Thirty-one

As Lassiter watched, from the saddle of his speeding horse, he saw the roaring runaway crash into the creek where it crossed the road, throwing water in rainbow tints through bars of sunlight. Without losing a thumbs-width of speed, it rumbled up the far side and on down the road, always with the desperate horseman in pursuit. Shaking out a loop for another try, hoping the flying feet of the tiring horse didn't get entangled and bring them down.