A Grave for Lassiter (6 page)

Days passed swiftly. He got so he could help assemble the small platform where Doc sold his elixir. But he tired easily. Patience, he warned himself. When he returned to Bluegate he had to be strong and have a clear mind. Among other things, he didn't intend to forget the seven thousand dollars he had invested in the freight line owned by Herm Falconer and his niece. By now, Herm should have recovered from his leg wound and be able to take over. But Herm would need help against Kane Farrell—a gentleman Lassiter intended to settle with. He couldn't forget Dutch Holzer mentioning that Farrell had paid two thousand dollars to have him killed.

Not to mention the least of it, Vance Vanderson, who had run off to leave Lassiter alone to face a pair of killers.

There was no hurry, he kept reminding himself. There was plenty of time.

With the coming of winter, they headed south where the sun was warm. Doc owned a rather spacious adobe house that he used when not on the road. There was a smaller house on the property. This was Roma's.

After a few days, Doc and Rex left. They would do their show in saloons and stores. They wanted Roma to go with them, but she said it was her place to stay with her patient and see him get well.

At the first sign of spring, Lassiter began practicing with his gun. A lot of the money he had with him went for shells.

More than once, when Lassiter grew discouraged over his slow recovery, Roma would bring him to life at night. At first they had to be inventive because of his wound, but finally he was able to lock her in his arms in a normal embrace. Afterward they would lie together and he would stroke her long, silky hair. One name would beat through his brain like the tom-tom Rex used for Roma's dance. Kane Farrell, Kane Farrell, Kane Farrell . . .

Roma received a letter from Doc. They were on their way back and expected Roma to go on the road with them as usual.

“I'd rather go with you, Lassiter.”

“Too dangerous.”

“What could be so dangerous about a town with a pretty name like Bluegate?”

“How did you know about Bluegate?”

“You talked when you were out of your head. I learned many things about you, darling Lassiter.”

Her black eyes were shining, the red mouth curved in a sensual smile. “So, you take me with you,” she said.

Their parting was not easy, but he was adamant. Roma screamed at him and pretended she wanted to claw his face with her sharp nails. But in the end they fell into each other's arms in a warm embrace.

And after kissing her for one last time, he rode north. How he hated to leave her. She had done so much for him. But it was impossible to take her back to the turmoil he would face. Soon Rex and Doc would return and she would forget all about him when she returned to the old routine. At least that was what he told himself on the chill spring morning as his trail climbed through cactus and stretches of high desert, with a backdrop of purple mountains.

One night in a tavern where he was eating supper he heard his name mentioned. Some men were drinking at a short bar. They were comparing gunfighters.

“Lassiter was the best,” said a man in fringed buckskin.

“Not as good as Kane Farrell,” another man said. “He took down the Texas Kid right on the main street of Bluegate just last month.”

“Lassiter an' Farrell shoulda faced up. Now that would've been a gunfight.”

A thin mustached man spoke for the first time. “Fact is, Lassiter couldn't be so goddamn good. He ended up dead, like the Kid. I was at his funeral. I seen him buried.”

None of the customers paid any attention to the slender man in worn range clothing, who sported a bushy beard and ate a lonely supper.

Chapter Seven

Melody rode into Bluegate on a windy spring morning. Tumbleweeds rolled along the street and frightened chickens and set dogs to barking. On this bleak morning Bluegate seemed the most forlorn town, set out in the loneliest corner of God's green earth. At one time she had found peace here with the shaded streets, the yards filled with bright spring flowers. Everyone seemed friendly, but now there was tension so strong one could see it on the faces that no longer smiled but were tight with suspicion. Could one man—Kane Farrell—cause such a change in a town?

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?”

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.