A Grave for Lassiter (5 page)

Kiley edged up to the table. “Got news for you, Mr. Farrell.” He mouthed a word:
Lassiter!

Farrell's green eyes lighted up. He allowed one of the drummers to win the pot then stepped out to an alley with Kiley, who quickly told his version of what had happened. It was he, not Holzer, who brought Lassiter down.

“So you got the bastard.” Farrell was elated. “Where is he? I want to look at him!”

It hadn't been Kiley's purpose to make the long ride to town just to backtrack so Farrell could take a look at the body. Kiley had crept back in himself and verified the fact that Lassiter was dead, crushed under a chunk of ceiling rock.

“Tell you why I come in, Mr. Farrell. Dutch, he was holdin' the two thousand dollars you was givin' us for nailin' Lassiter. An' . . . an' he never did split the money, even when I kept askin' him for my half. . . .”

“You think Holzer ran off with your share?”

“I sure do, Mr. Farrell. He's gone an' so is his hoss.”

“But you did get Lassiter. You're sure of that.”

“He put up a helluva fight, but I got him. Put a bullet in his back, then. . . .”

“
You
got him, not Holzer?” Farrell arched a dark red brow.

“Sure it was me.” Kiley dug a boot toe into the alley dust and said awkwardly, “Was wonderin' if you could pay me a little somethin' till I git my hands on Dutch.”

Farrell studied the man. Kiley's eyes were reddened and his gait none too steady when he had left the saloon. He smelled as if he'd bathed in a whiskey vat.

“You nipped on a bottle all the way back to town,” Farrell said, not accusingly but just stating a fact.

“Dutch runnin' out on me was some upsettin', Mr. Farrell.”

“Describe the place where I can see Lassiter's body.”

“It's where we sunk the gal's wagon in the mud.” He described the mine tunnel.

“I remember it. We'll ride up and have a look.”

Kiley groaned, then when Farrell frowned, he laid it on his hand wound. “That goddamn Lassiter done it to me afore I got him.”

“When we get back have Doc Overmeyer fix it up. I'll pay the bill. Now forget about Dutch. You're a good man and I need you. I'll give you the thousand you say Dutch got away with. I'll have Sheriff Dancur keep an eye open for him. He'll turn up.”

Farrell rode out of town with Kiley and one of the men who had been in the poker game. Rip Tolliver was tall, angular, in his mid-twenties, with sly brown eyes. A shock of dark brown hair was always tumbling over his forehead.

There was no way Farrell could quell his excitement. To look upon Lassiter's dead face would give him one of the greatest pleasures of life.

Up on the high road a pair of drifters came across a big sorrell that was brush scratched and hung up by the reins in a big clump of thornbush. It was pretty well marked up. One rein had been torn loose as if the animal might have been tied and then panicked for one reason or another and bolted into the brush.

One of the men, rotund in shabby clothing, cocked an eye at the horse. “Would bring a good price.”

“An' be hung for a hoss thief?” grunted his bearded companion.

“This fella's carryin' a 77 brand. Wouldn't take but a few minutes of heatin' up your harness ring an' turning 77 into a double hour glass.”

The bearded one gave a short laugh. “Let's us go somewhere an' heat up that harness ring.”

They led the horse on up the mountain.

Early next morning Melody started for Aspen Creek. She was worried about Vance, after what she had recently heard concerning Lassiter. Lena Overmeyer, who was the doctor's sister, and working as Melody's housekeeper, had been on the street when the visit had been made to the bank.

“I was with Ruth Simmons and she saw that man Lassiter and literally froze. The things she told me about him. And I can say, Melody, that some of my brother's patients confirmed it.”

Melody, already overwrought by all that had happened, was badly shaken at the disclosure. It had come right after she told Lena Overmeyer that a housekeeper could no longer be afforded. From then on, Melody would have to take care of her own house.

Among other things Lena had said was that Lassiter, a known killer, was also a swindler. It was very upsetting when she thought of how her two uncles had apparently been taken in by the man.

Now she mainly worried about Herm's stepson. Vance seemed friendly but she had noticed an undercurrent of tension whenever Lassiter was around. Perhaps Vance was aware of Lassiter's reputation, yet he had gone blindly off to the mountains with him. Only to do her a favor; to help get the freight wagon out of the mud. But in the company of a man of Lassiter's reputation, anything could happen.

After reaching Aspen Creek, Dad Hornbeck told her Lassiter and Vance Vanderson had gone north to the wagon. She and Hornbeck arrived there shortly before noon.

She was surprised to find her wagon and the mule team off the road. The mules were muddied as were the wagon wheels. But there was no sign of Lassiter or Vance. What in the world had happened to them? she asked herself. She called their names until she was hoarse, but got no response.

Dad Hornbeck drove the mule team down the mountain grade, Melody riding her saddler. Lassiter had taken a light wagon, Hornbeck had told her, but it was gone. It worried her. However, when she got back to the Aspen Creek office, it was standing in front. Beside it stood Vance Vanderson, looking a little pale but unharmed. In relief, she ran to him, seized both of his hands and beamed up into his face.

“Oh, I'm so thankful you're all right,” she cried.

A warm smile broke across his face. Before realizing what happened, she was being enfolded in his arms. She couldn't decide whether she liked his sudden boldness or not.

Pushing away from him, she asked, “Where's Lassiter?”

“Dead.”

A hand flew to her mouth. She hated it when anyone passed over the line, as her mother used to say. Even a renegade like Lassiter.

Two men had tried to jump them, Vanderson said sincerely. Lassiter had panicked and run into a mine tunnel. There was shooting. Somehow parts of the tunnel ceiling were jarred loose by concussion and came down.

“Anyway, I drove off the two men, but Lassiter failed to come out of the tunnel. I went back to look for him. I found him on the floor, on his back. A chunk of rock had bashed in his face. He was wearing his belt so I knew for sure it was him.”

“What happened to the two men?” Melody asked tensely.

“I kept up such a stream of gunfire they decided to run for it.”

Dad Hornbeck, who had come to stand at Melody's side looked skeptical. “You said Lassiter got scared and ran off and
left
you?”

“He certainly did,” Vanderson said, with a sad shake of his head. “And I'd heard such stories about bravery. He certainly fooled my father. And me. And I expect Melody.”

“It don't sound to me like Lassiter,” Hornbeck said firmly.

“Well, it does to me,” Melody countered. “From all the things I've heard about the man.

Hornbeck's wrinkled face reflected complete surprise.

Vanderson smiled at Melody. “I guess it's up to us to run the company till my dad gets back on his feet.”

Melody frowned at “dad.” Always before Vance had referred to him as Herm.

Melody learned that Lassiter's funeral was to be within two days. Kane Farrell had sent some men into the mountains, so she learned, to return the body for burial. She wondered how Farrell had known where to find the body, but didn't give it more than passing thought.

Melody attended the services out of courtesy. Despite the man's unsavory reputation, there was no denying his association with her uncles.

There was quite a turnout for the funeral. One thing puzzled her. Many of those attending the ceremony seemed choked with grief at what they termed the death of a fine man. Only a rather small group, she realized, seemed pleased at Lassiter's passing. Among them was Kane Farrell.

She lingered while answering questions concerning the health of her Uncle Herm, who was recovering from his leg wound many miles to the south. When the crowd began to thin, she noticed Farrell walk over to the fresh mound of earth and spit on Lassiter's grave. To her it was obscene, no matter what Lassiter might have been in life.

A greater obscenity occurred after dark when half-drunk cowhands on their way out to the Twin Horn ranch stopped by the graveyard to “run a little water where they got the bastard planted.”

In the passing weeks, fall crawled into winter's ice and many of the high passes were blocked by heavy drifts. Even when spring was finally only a breath away, the snows still clung.

During that time, the fortunes of Northguard Freight Company, which had been on shaky ground, deteriorated badly.

Chapter Six

Nearly three hundred miles to the south a man with a full beard tried out his gun, firing at bottles and cans.

“This time you hit every one of them!” cried a blackeyed girl. She clapped her hands. “You are well at last.”

“Almost . . . thanks to you.”

“Now you shave off the beard so I can feel your soft cheek against mine?”

“I'm supposed to be dead, so I heard. I want to stay that way a little longer. The beard stays.”

He had felt the gun kick against his hand, but it was a good feeling. For two weeks now he had been practicing his draw and his marksmanship. Sometimes Roma brought lunch and he'd shoot and then they'd eat and he'd shoot some more.

That night as usual it was hard to sleep because memories like jagged glass filled his mind. Memories of the mine tunnel, of the terrible pain in his back, chunks of rock smashing to the floor from walls and ceiling.

He remembered falling from his horse, left foot wedged in the stirrup. He remembered a girl saying, “We can't go off and leave him here.”

“We'll pull his foot out of the stirrup and carry him to the trees. There he can die in peace. He's finished.”

It was a male voice, cultured, middle-aged.

“Doc, we can't let him die!” The girl again, sounding tearful.

“As an expert in the matter of bullet wounds, I can tell this one is doomed. If we fiddle around with him, we'll be late for our date in Rowleyville.”

“If you and Rex think you can do without me, then . . . you just go on ahead!” the girl stormed. “I'm staying here. I intend on getting that bullet out of him.”

Another man said, “Roma's got her back bowed, Elihu. Give in to her.”

“Rex, I suppose you're right, as usual.”

“One of you build me a fire,” the girl instructed. “I want boiling water. . . .”

That was the last Lassiter remembered until someone thrust the folded edge of a gunnysack into his mouth and told him to bite down hard on it.

He lay on his stomach, reasonably conscious until something sharp probed into his wound. Then he fainted.

Consciousness came floating back in a jolting wagon. He lay in the wagon bed on a pile of blankets. He lay on his stomach. By turning his head he could look out the open back of a canvas cover and see a patch of blue sky.

A young woman of about twenty years crawled into the wagon and looked at him closely. Her eyes were intensely black. “You're awake,” she said, and smiled.

“Yeah,” he managed.

“I got the bullet out.”

“Thanks.”

“You'll be all right now.” She gave him some water and he slept.

For supper he had broth from a stewed rabbit. Two days later he felt a small nudge of returning strength. For the first time he was able to assess his surroundings. He lay under a canvas lean-to. Nearby was a wagon decorated with fire-belching dragons against a background of yellow flames.
DOCTOR ELIHU DEWITT AND HIS ELIXIR FROM ANCIENT CATHAY
was painted in black letters on the side of the wagon.

There was more that mentioned a long life, free from illness and pain.

It was obvious that he had been picked up by a medicine show. He started to laugh, but contracting muscles for the effort brought a stab of pain.

Roma was dancing in the center of a crowd. The audience was appreciative. Men stood with eyes wide, mouths agape. There were a few women, most of them buxom and jealous of Roma's youth and beauty.

Roma's long black hair swung out from her body as she pivoted and dipped, eyes and white teeth flashing. She danced in time to a tom-tom a tall and slender man was beating. He had an aristocratic face and thinning hair. He wore a red tunic with yellow buttons.

Roma tossed her head saucily, rolled her eyes and did a series of high kicks that revealed petticoats and pantaloons of a vivid red, as was her ruffled skirt. Dragons done in yellow thread decorated skirt and blouse. Long blue-black hair was drawn severely back from a high cheek-boned face and tied with a yellow ribbon.

At the completion of the dance, Doc DeWitt, wearing a voluminous costume of faded red silk, stepped to a small platform at the rear of a wagon. In the tones of an elocutionist, he extolled the virtues of his elixir, lulling Lassiter to sleep.

Then they were on the move again, from one town to another. One evening DeWitt brewed up another batch of his elixir, a concoction of roots and herbs he found along the way and carried in gunnysacks to dry.

After a few more days, Lassiter got Roma aside. “I've got to go back.”

She brushed aside her long hair. “You're not strong enough.”

“I'll show you.”

He started toward his horse, which stood with the other animals of the troupe. But he took no more than three bold steps when the ground slid out from under him.

“I need to fatten you up,” Roma whispered, helping him to her tent. The snow fell against a full moon. Roma's smile was wicked as she kissed him. “Other things I need to do for you also.”

That night for the first time her soft breasts warmed his face. Later he wondered why Doc and Rex seemed to take no offense at the affection their star attraction had for a total stranger, but she explained that the three of them were just good friends.