A Grave for Lassiter (7 page)

“Go take a look,” Pete said. Lassiter felt the short hairs twitch at the back of his neck, as Barney dismounted.

Barney Cole opened the cemetery gate and came tramping in Lassiter's direction. Of all times, Lassiter wanted no confrontations. But he was trapped in the open, in the moonlight.

Cole halted by a large gravestone some fifteen feet away. “Step over here, Mex. Wanta look at you.”

“No unnerstan',” Lassiter muttered and started to back away slowly.

“He don't speak English, I reckon,” Barney Cole shouted back to Pete who still sat in his saddle. “He's no more Lassiter than I am.”

“Bring him down here!”

Cole swore. He threw a large shadow partly because of a bulky blanket coat. “All right, you, git down by the road.” Cole jerked a thumb in that direction.

And then he seemed to realize Lassiter had been easing away from him. He lunged and got a firm grip on Lassiter's left arm. But Lassiter pulled it away. At the same time he drove a powerful right against Cole's jaw. Cole's knees started to sag.

Believing that escape was the smartest move under the circumstances, Lassiter turned to run toward the spot where he had left his black horse. At that moment the moon chose to slip behind thick clouds. It was suddenly as black as a stormy midnight. In his pounding run, Lassiter failed to see the crumbling upper half of a fancy tombstone lying in the path. His right foot cleared it, but the left caught a corner of an angel's wing. He sprawled headlong, jarring the breath from his body.

A gun roared at his back. He cringed, for it was such a shot that had taken him down in the mine tunnel. This one missed. It smashed into the angel's wing. A bit of plaster stung Lassiter's cheek.

“Bastard sneaked a punch on me!” Cole roared. “But I got him!”

Before Barney Cole could get set for another shot, Lassiter flung himself aside. His .44 roared just a shade before Cole's second shot. Lassiter aimed for one of the thick legs, but the man had had the bad judgement to lean over as he lunged. His scream knifed above the thunder of the two guns—a scream that reminded Lassiter of a wolf in pain.

A carbine opened up from the road. Because of the sudden lack of moonlight, all Lassiter had to go on was the muzzle flash. He fired as a second bullet from Pete's rifle struck a headboard to Lassiter's left.

Suddenly Pete spun his horse and put it to a hard gallop along the road. Just like Kane Farrell, Lassiter was thinking as he tried to spot the fleeing rider in the dark, refusing to buck odds not strongly in his favor. Sounds of hoofbeats were fading in the still night air as Lassiter walked toward Cole. The man was trying to reach out for the gun he had dropped.

“Don't make me put another hole in you, Barney,” Lassiter warned.

Cole, lying on the ground, jerked back his head. “You ain't no Mex.”

“You and Pete alone out here?”

“Yeah.” Cole's chest was heaving as he fought for breath. “Who . . . who are you?” he managed to get out.

“Lassiter.”

“But he's dead!”

“Not quite!” Lassiter picked up Cole's gun and stuck it in his own waistband. Then he looked closely at the man. The front of the blanket coat was soggy with blood. The bullet had splintered Cole's collarbone, from what Lassiter could tell in the dim light. In the bent position Cole had assumed, the bullet had been deflected into the chest.

“Where you been all this time?” Cole gasped. “Hell, it was back last fall when you was . . . .”

“Killed,” Lassiter supplied when Cole ran out of wind. The night brightened as the moon left the cloudbank.

“Who . . . who the hell got buried instead of you?”

“Ed Kiley still around?”

“Big a blowhard as ever. Why?”

“How about Dutch Holzer?”

“He . . . he aint' been seen since the day you . . . you got it.”

“Likely it's Holzer in my grave.”

“Naw,” Cole gasped. “Kiley claims Holzer run out on him. With Kiley's half of the money Farrell . . .” Cole broke off.

“Paid them to kill me? Is that what you were going to?”

say?”

“What . . . what you aim to do with me, Lassiter?”

“Use your shirt for a bandage. Tie you to the saddle, then ride you to Doc Overmeyer's”

“You're a white man, Lassiter.” There was a gurgling in Cole's voice. Blood in the throat, Lassiter guessed. He was straining to hear any sound of hoofbeats in case Pete returned with reinforcements. Even though Pete had ridden off in the direction of Twin Horn, to the west and south, he might have doubled back to town after a mile or so.

Cole had a sudden surge of energy. “Let's you an' me dig up Holzer. If he's really in your grave, he's got the gold on him. . . .”

“No hombre ever got buried with money in his pocket. Somebody got it before then.”

“Two thousand dollars, so Kiley claims. We'll split it, then you git me to the doc. . . .”

“Two thousand is what Farrell figured my scalp was worth?”

“He'll likely pay more'n that to git you next time.” Cole's voice was growing weaker.

“Who's this Pete you were with?” Lassiter wanted to know.

“Works with me out at Farrell's Twin Horn.”

“Old man Borodenker owned Twin Horn. How'd Farrell get it?”

But the question went unanswered. Barney Cole was dead.

Lassiter had a sour taste in his mouth. On his first night back he'd been forced to kill a man. Only because he'd been curious about his own grave. He left Cole where he lay, but did unsaddle the man's horse down on the road and turn it loose. The animal, in Lassiter's judgement, was more deserving than its late, renegade owner.

As he rode toward the haze of Bluegate lights, he wondered what Roma was doing this night. Perhaps by now she was back on the road with Doc and Rex. He hadn't wanted to leave her behind, but it couldn't be helped. Returning to Bluegate was like entering a cave filled with rattlesnakes. No matter where you stepped, there was danger. Above all, after what she had done for him over the past months, he couldn't end it all by risking her life.

A gentle breeze was blowing down from Northguard Pass as he entered town, carrying with it the perfume of spring flowers, the tang of chaparral. The boardwalks were crowded and the streets choked with wagons, buggies, and saddlehorses. Small boys hooted and hollered in games of their own. The three-quarter moon was unblemished at last by clouds. It gilded the rocks high on a mountain known as Las Casitas, crowned with boulders the size of small houses, named by the Spanish early in the last century.

Voices were everywhere, boots and women's slippers scraped on the walks. Doors slammed at business establishments. A woman's trilling laughter, a man's shout as a high-stepping saddler nearly ran him down, the creak of wagon wheels all filled the air.

In his hurried trip north, Lassiter had lost all track of time, but he guessed it must be Saturday night because of all the activity. An unlucky night for one Barney Cole, who hadn't wanted to investigate a transient in the town cemetery, but who had been talked into it by Pete Bromley. Such were the narrow margins between the living and the dead on the frontier.

Lassiter shivered. He had witnessed so much killing in his lifetime. It was the reason he shied from marriage, not wanting a widow left behind because of the way he lived, always on the threshhold of danger. Nor would he allow himself a lasting relationship with a woman, even without marriage. If left alone, her tears would be as copious as any grieving widow's. Some people thought him callous. Some, like Kane Farrell, hated him because he spoiled their game.

By now, Herm Falconer should be running the freight line, his leg wound finally healed. At least his niece would be relieved of that responsibility. With Herm to watch over her, Lassiter was sure the girl could resist Vance Vanderson's charms.

Thinking of Vance made him clench his teeth. Vanderson deserved a good punch in the nose for fleeing like a coward that day up at the mine. Perhaps by now Herm had gotten a tighter rein on his stepson.

After the business out at the graveyard, he needed a drink. He left his horse at the crowded rack in front of the Bluegate Mercantile. Perhaps less conspicuous than if he tied it at the saloon hitchrack, he was thinking.

As he angled across the busy street, he would probably be taken for a drifter, with his flat-crowned black hat pulled low, his faded wool shirt, canvas jacket and pants. The full beard hid most of his face. The eyes, however, were not those of a drifter. They were alert and penetrating. He neared the saloon.

A tinny piano accompanied drunken voices in a rendition of “Tenting Tonight.”

A large new sign was displayed on the saloon building: SHANAGAN'S
TO REPLACE
DIXIE'S. It had been owned by a Southerner who had come out of the Confederate Army with a bad arm and a dragging foot.

A familiar wash of warm air hit Lassiter when he stepped through swing doors and stood with his back to the wall. Mingled odors of beer, whisky, and tobacco smoke struck his nostrils. The smell of coal oil from the lamps floated along the ceilings.

Not seeing any familiar faces, Lassiter edged up to the long bar. “Tenting Tonight” was just concluding. Even though the war had been over for some years, enough old timers remained to reminisce and sing the old camp songs. Some were blubbering.

Lassiter found himself standing next to a lanky middle-aged man, fairly drunk and with moist eyes. “ 'Scuse me, friend,” he said, turning to Lassiter, “but when I hear them songs I remember ol' Ned. Lost him at First Manassas.”

“A lot of men were lost,” Lassiter put in.

“Even though that's a blue belly song, it still stirs me up,” the stranger confided. “Me, I was Reb. Reckon you can tell by my voice.”

Lassiter nodded and finally got the attention of a perspiring barkeep, who set out bottle and glass. Lassiter fluffed out his beard. He doubted if anyone would recognize him with the beard in the dim light.

The first drink of whiskey hit his stomach like a clenched fist.

Lassiter took a deep breath, then poured for the drunk who had been overcome by the wartime ballad. The man thanked him profusely, doffing his hat to reveal a few hairs plastered to a pink scalp. Bushy sideburns seemed to give width to a narrow face.

“Do you know a man named Herm Falconer?” Lassiter asked, seeking information.

“Knowed a Josh Falconer, but he up an' died last year.”

Lassiter frowned. Hadn't Herm put in an appearance yet? He asked about Vance Vanderson, which brought a sour look to the stranger's long face.

“Vanderson! Good riddance, I say.”

“He dead?” Lassiter asked narrowly.

“The world ain't that lucky. He lit out for Denver, so I hear.”

That meant Melody was running things alone. He wasn't surprised that Vanderson would run out on her when the going got tough. Lassiter's eyes roamed up and down the busy bar. Everyone seemed engaged in conversation. Many Saturday night red eyes were in evidence. The tinny piano, played by a fat man in a checkered vest, was thumping again.

“Northguard Freight Company still operate out of Bluegate?” Lassiter asked the former Rebel. The man was making him nervous by the way he stared in the backbar mirror. He turned to study Lassiter more closly.

“Ain't called Northguard here in town,” the man said. “Called Farrell now.”

Lassiter's bearded lips tightened. His eyes skipped around the big smoky room, hoping Farrell might have entered while he was talking. Then he cautioned himself to move slowly. Although he had emptied many boxes of ammunition down at El Puente, shooting at rocks with Roma looking on wasn't the real test. It was one thing to face a row of rocks on a dirt shelf. Quite something else to face up to a man. Especially one as ruthless and tricky as Kane Farrell.

He couldn't afford to make some damn fool play ahead of time and risk having his head blown off. Tonight at the graveyard had been close enough.

The stranger was peering into Lassiter's eyes. Then he slapped the bartop a whack with his open hand and gave a hoot of laughter. “I knew I knowed you, by gad. I'd know them eyes anywhere, beard or not. . . .”

Lassiter felt his mouth go dry. Several men nearby were looking on, startled by the Southerner's slap on the bartop and his strident laughter.

“Wait a minute . . .” Lassiter started to caution him.

“I'm Bert Oliver. An'you are . . .” Oliver was squinting up at Lassiter. Here the light was reasonably good, for they stood under one of the copper-sheathed overhead lamps.

“And I'm . . .” Lassiter grabbed a name out of the air. “I'm Bill Jasper.”

“Hell fire, you're
Lassiter!
”

The name cracked like a whip at that end of the crowded bar. Men stood stiffly, eyes widened. “Don't use his name on me!” Lassiter's voice was harsh. “That renegade's dead!”

Oliver seemed embarrassed by the reaction, the staring drinkers, the sudden stillnes. Men had started to edge away.

“I only meant that I remember seein' this Lassiter once. Was down at the border. The sheriff there made a big to-do about givin' him a belt with his initial on the silver buckle. You kinda reminded me of this fella Lassiter is all.” Oliver gave a nervous glance around. Some of the customers had resumed their conversations, but others still stared as if unable to make up their minds.

“That ain't Lassiter,” said a little man in a brown suit. “I

oughta know. I buried Lassiter myself.” He winked and laughed. He belched and swayed back to the bar where he picked up a full glass of whiskey and drank from it.

When the room seemed back to normal, Oliver leaned close. “Sorry I spoke up like that,” he whispered. “Reckon I had too much whiskey in my gullet.” Then in a louder voice, “Thanks for the whiskey, Bill Jasper.”