A Grave for Lassiter (15 page)

Meanwhile, Lassiter was in the mine office, telling Betancourt, the superintendent, about the two attempts to keep him from honoring the mining company contract, the night attack and then Blackshear.

“Farrell tried, but didn't make it,” Lassiter finished.

Betancourt clapped him on the back later. “My foreman reports that everything arrived in good shape.”

Lassiter slipped a hand over the pocket containing the bank draft Betancourt had given him. Along with a promise of new business as soon as it arrived by railroad at Montclair. He couldn't wait to show the bank draft to Melody. Proof that the long haul had been a success. And they had not lost a single man.

Chapter Fifteen

Kane Farrell barely heard Blackshear rambling on about the trouble up at Montclair. Blackshear had come south on a fast horse, following the encounter with Lassiter. He arrived at the big house at the edge of Bluegate just as Farrell was getting ready to go downtown for a night of poker at Shanagan's.

“I was about to lock Lassiter up when his crew jumped me,” Blackshear said as he sipped the fine whiskey Farrell had poured. The bottle, on a small table, had a label that showed two colonels, one in blue, the other in Rebel gray, sabers lifted in one hand, glasses in the other. Colonel's Choice.

Blackshear drank more of the whiskey while waiting for Farrell to make some comment. But he stood, with back turned, in front of the oversize fireplace that was unlighted because of the mild evening. He was staring up at a broad leather belt displayed diagonally across the stones of the fireplace chimney. Time and the elements had dulled the silver so that it was in need of a good polishing. But intricate etching around the border of the buckle and the large classic “L” reflected the work of a craftsman.

“So you were jumped by Lassiter's crew,” Farrell said at last. His eyes reminded Blackshear of green ice. A shiver danced across Blackshear's shoulders. “Why didn't you have twice as many men to side you?” Farrell went on.

“Wa'al, to tell the truth, I figured it'd just be me an' Lassiter. . . .”

“You
figured!
” Farrell's lips twitched. “Did it ever occur to you that conjecture never won a war? It takes direct action.”

Blackshear ran a tongue tip over blunt teeth as he puzzled over “conjecture.” One eye was slightly swollen and the various bruises and abrasions were still raw on his bearded face.

“I'll finish the bastard next time.” Blackshear reddened at memory of his humiliation at Montclair, before the warehouse crew and passersby.

“There's another man about your size who also has a grudge against Lassiter,” Farrell mused as he stared at the giant slouched in a leather chair, glass of whiskey gripped in powerful fingers. “It would be quite a show if the two of you confronted Lassiter.”

Blackshear bristled at the suggestion he might need help. “I can handle Lassiter alone.” The bearded jaw was out-thrust, the small eyes bright with hatred. “Long as somebody keeps his men off my back,” he added.

“I guess you weren't listening to me. I said the two of you. And that is exactly what I meant to say.”

“But I want him myself. . . .”

Farrell's elegant hand made a gesture of annoyance. “So far, Lassiter has been able to squirm out of every trap I've set. This time I want to make sure of him and have a little sport out of it at the same time.”

“The two of us, huh? Me an' . . . this other fella.”

“Exactly.” Farrell smiled as if commending a small child who has just mastered simple addition. “In fact, I think the rest of the county should have an opportunity to witness the spectacle.”

“Spectacle?” Blackshear frowned in puzzlement. “What you mean?”

“Roman gladiators . . . Oh, never mind.” Farrell gave a short laugh as he was carried away by the excitement of the idea. “I'll see that tickets are sold.”

“You mean like for a show.”

“Now you're beginning to understand. You see, most men are thrilled by the sight of blood on a fellow human, although they seldom admit it. They enjoy watching someone suffer.”

Blackshear chuckled and helped himself to more whiskey.

“I'll see that your cousin Bo is conveniently out of town during the event,” Farrell continued. “In case some nervous ladies start screaming for him to arrest you gladiators. The crowd at the warehouse will be Roman citizens from Nero's time. . . .”

Blackshear looked blank.

“Yes, it'll be held at the big warehouse here in town. Only those that pay can witness the spectacle of the century. To see an arrogant Lassiter beaten to his knees and then stomped to death. How does that sound to you?”

“The stompin' part of it I like. With Lassiter's face under my boot heels.” Then a frown ridged a pockmarked stretch of flesh between his eyes. “But what'll Bo say about Lassiter gittin' kilt?”

“I told you. Bo will be out of town. And after the deed's done, it's too late to worry. Wouldn't you say?”

“All I know is I like the part about Lassiter bein' dead.”

“Of course you and Marsh may have to clear out for a spell. It'll soon blow over and you'll have plenty of money.”

“Yeah . . . .”

“In six months hardly anyone will even remember that Lassiter was smashed to a pulp on the floor of the Farrell Freight Lines warehouse. How does two thousand dollars sound to you, Art?”

“Jeezus! Two thousand
dollars?
”

“All yours. And two thousand for Marsh.”

“Who's this Marsh?”

“Works up at the Glory Mine. Lassiter's crew jumped him like they did you. You'll meet him. Now I want you to stay away from whiskey and eat lots of beefsteak and potatoes and run a few miles every day. Do you understand?”

“Well . . . yeah.” Blackshear drained his glass and held it up for Farrell to see. “Guess this'll be my last till it gits over with. How soon we do it?”

“Soon.” Farrell was excited. “I'll get Lassiter to town, one way or another.” He started to laugh as he pictured Melody Vanderson as the perfect bait for his trap. Then he turned and stared up at the elaborately carved silver buckle of Lassiter's belt. He had bribed Miegs, the undertaker, to remove it from the body everyone assumed to be Lassiter's; Farrell had wanted it as a reminder of his triumph over an old enemy.

Of course even now he could call Lassiter out and play the game of “may the best man win.” But after downing the Texas Kid recently, he had come to the conclusion that he was too valuable a commodity to risk in foolish ventures. Not when there were others to do the job for him. The Texas Kid had been incredibly fast. Almost too much so.

On the day Lassiter left the Bitterroot Mine for the long trip downgrade to Aspen City, Kane Farrell was in the town's saloon a block from the rather squalid headquarters of the Northguard Freight Company. He called one of the local drifters over to his table, gave the man a silver dollar and an envelope he was to deliver. Then he sat back to wait, feeling excitement as his plan got under way.

At the freight office, Vanderson was yawning. He was alone. His eyes were reddened from lack of sleep, the brown hair rumpled. He was at the desk, trying to figure out how much the company would make out of the Bitterroot business. A shabbily dressed man shuffled in. The man handed him an envelope and departed.

Vanderson tore open the envelope and read the few hurried lines written in a fine hand. Then he glanced at the closed door of the sleeping quarters. Melody was sleeping late because they had sat up long past midnight, drinking coffee and arguing. He sensed he was gradually wearing her down. And this was necessary, he believed. For she had to be definitely on his side by the time Lassiter got back. All along, Vanderson had tried to convince her that his going away some weeks ago had been for the benefit of their marriage. No, he hadn't run out on her; he wanted that understood. And he just wasn't a letter writer, not until he had good news. And when he finally had it, he thought seeing her in person would be better than a letter. After all, he had brought her money, hadn't he? Money earned by sweat and aching muscle.

Last night, at least, had been a milestone. While still pleading his cause, and Melody so sleepy she could hardly keep her eyes open, he managed to slip into her bed before she realized it. She tried to order him out and when that failed, began to plead with him.

But he kept talking and manuevering. Finally she seemed convinced when he stressed her wifely duties.

Really forced instead of convinced, if he wanted to be honest about it, she had suffered in silence through the rest of it.

But she would come around completely before long. Last night had been a chink in the dam of her resistance. Each night would be that much easier until finally she looked forward to it. As he was sure she had when they were first married. Or at least she had seemed to.

All this had been streaming pleasantly through his head as he toyed with a column of figures that would reveal the approximate profit from the Bitterroot haul. He was even considering a return to her blankets that morning, to wake her up in proper married fashion. That was when the drifter came shuffling in with the note from Kane Farrell.

Vanderson swore. He didn't want to see Farrell, damn it, not when he needed to concentrate on things here at home. But he didn't dare refuse. Farrell knew too much about him. For instance, the night Bert Oliver had been trimmed out of five thousand dollars. After convincing Farrell that he had worked big games before, Farrell gave him his chance. Of course, if Farrell tried to implicate him, he would be exposing his own hand in the cheating. But Vanderson had been around long enough to know that the big thieves usually squirmed out of trouble. It was the small fry who spent miserable years on a prison rock pile.

The small saloon smelled of unwashed flesh and stale beer. Farrell sat at a table, looking as if he resented the odors. The bottle at his elbow was not the usual Colonel's Choice. Farrell was immaculately dressed in a knee-length leather coat and navy pants. He waved him to a chair, then leaned across the stained table and quietly told him what he wanted done.

Vanderson tugged at his mustache thoughtfully when Farrell was finished. “How can I be sure to get her to town on any certain date?”

“You're her husband, need I point out. Don't ask her,
order
her. Don't let that fluff of pale hair and pink cheeks put a ring in your nose.”

Vanderson reddened. “I'm head of my own household . . . .”

“Then I'll expect her in town on the twentieth. At my place. Get her there in mid-afternoon.”

“I tell you, Farrell, I'd rather not be a party to this . . . .”

Farrell gave him a look of disgust. “My friend, may I remind you of certain . . . forgeries?”

It took Vanderson a moment to realize what Farrell meant. Then it hit him like a blow to the stomach. He had forgotten about being talked into forging a sheepman's name on a bill of sale a few months back. It was for a thousand head. Farrell had taken most of the profit from the scheme, Vanderson recalled bitterly.

He was about to bristle and say that Farrell was equally guilty. But something in the man's superior smile, the knowing eyes, was a reminder that the forgeries had been committed by the hand of Vance Vanderson. Farrell had remained in the background and had no apparent connection with the dirty business.

“I'll have Melody at your place on the twentieth,” he said lamely.

“Good. It's the first step in getting Lassiter into our little trap.”

“Lassiter!”
Vanderson's face drained. “What is this all about?”

“I assume Lassiter doesn't know you're back yet.”

“Haven't seen him.”

“But you'd like to be rid of him.”

“God yes. I've dreaded facing up to him.”

“If you listen carefully, you'll never be troubled by him again. Either you
or
your wife.”

Something in Farrell's green eyes caused the back of Vanderson's neck to chill. Was Farrell trying to tell him that during his absence Lassiter had moved in? Moved in all the way? Was that what Farrell's knowing smile meant, the wise look in the green eyes? Vanderson swallowed and, thinking of Lassiter, slid a hand onto the comforting grips of the revolver worn under his coat.

Roma whirled, her skirts sailing out. Then she began a series of high kicks to the beat of Rex's tom-tom. Holding her skirts in such a way that the males in the audience had their view restricted to the lacy edge of pantaloons.

The town was Dry Bar, high in the mountains, with the usual circle of gawkers come to see the medicine show. Doc, slender and ornately costumed as he assumed a mandarin in far off Cathay would be, gave his speech from the small platform on the highly decorated wagon.

After sales were made, they started on their way. Roma was anxious to reach Bluegate as soon as possible. Doc thought a town of that size should give them several days of work. Also, Doc hoped she wouldn't be disappointed should she meet up with that fellow Lassiter again. From the first, even as badly wounded as he was, Doc had decided that Lassiter was a hardcase with a life of his own. A life not likely to be shared with a woman. At least not for any length of time. He knew that was what Roma was counting on. She would like marriage, but if not, she was smart enough to accept companionship instead.

Rex was curled up in the second wagon, driven by Roma, reading from a well-thumbed copy of the
Iliad.
How many times had Rex read it? Uncounted times. And the books by other Greeks and the plays of Shakespeare. Doc had found Rex at a precarious point in his life. As a tragedian in a travelling Shakespeare company, he became mixed up with a woman in Santa Fe. She happened to be married. Her fiery-tempered husband used a knife. The scars on Rex didn't show when he had on his clothes.

“My wounded pigeons,” Doc referred to the two members of his company, Rex and Roma.