A Grave for Lassiter (26 page)

With that he mounted and led his wagons slowly to the big turn-around that adjoined the Mercantile. The attack had come at midmorning. Now it was noon and they'd had nothing for a midday meal.

He told Oliver and the other two men that he'd watch the wagons while they ate at the cafe. “Bring me back a meat sandwich. I'll eat it on the way to the mine.”

Roma saw him from the alley window of her hotel, standing beside one of the wagons, smoking a cigar and staring moodily off into the distance.

Slipping the veil over her head, she started for the alley door.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Shortly past ten o'clock that morning, Rip Tolliver had come riding up to the Farrell house on a lathered horse. He had lost his hat and the loop of brown hair always tumbling across his forehead was nearly in one eye. Angrily he brushed it aside.

Farrell heard the hoofbeats and came to the door. Tolliver breathlessly told him about the failure of the attack on the Northguard wagons.

“Goddamn Ed Kiley rushed things when he shouldn't have an' give Lassiter time to get set.”

Farrell's face was ashen. He told Tolliver to go get himself a drink at Shanagan's, that he'd join him soon. In the parlor he stood staring at the faint marks on the fireplace stones above the mantel where Lassiter's belt had been displayed. His mouth twisted.

Just last evening Lineus Swallow had arrived on the stage in answer to Farrell's letter. He was a dapper little man in a red vest with a pencil mustache above a mouth that looked thin enough to have been cut into his face with a razor.

Farrell had almost said, “You made the long trip for nothing. You didn't get here soon enough. My men will finish Lassiter in the morning.”

But he had remained silent in the presence of the wiry gunfighter, who had earned his deadly reputation out in California and expanded on it in Colorado. He was thankful now that he had kept his mouth shut.

“Oh, goddamn you, Lassiter!” he cried, and shook his fist at the fireplace.

Roma heard Farrell shout her name. “I'm in my room,” she called.

At first, she couldn't imagine a man wanting to sleep alone after he made love. That was the best part of it, the period she had so enjoyed with Lassiter. But after a few nights with Farrell, she welcomed being alone. He was a monster. She hadn't realized it because she had been so blinded with jealousy over Lassiter and that Vanderson woman.

Now that she had cooled down, she knew how foolish she had been. Lassiter had a right to his own life. Just because they had spent some weeks together didn't give her ownership. That came with one's family; a daughter betrothed by a father to the son of a special friend. That was binding for life. Nothing else was.

Farrell stood in the doorway. “What the hell are you doing?” His face was livid.

She had been throwing things into a portmanteau on the bed. “I'm going back to my people.”

“Take off your clothes.”

Her eyes flashed as she spun around. “You don't yell at me like I'm a common whore!”

“Speaking of common whores, when I'm through with you I'll turn you over to my friend Blanche. She'll train you well.”

“You try it.” She bared her teeth. And when he reached out for her, she flipped up the skirt of a drab gray travelling dress, one loosely fitted so as not to show off her curves. A dress suitable for a woman travelling alone on a stage coach.

Her fingers brushed the hilt of a knife she wore in a scabbard at the top of a stocking. But Farrell was quick. He ripped the knife and stocking away, then flung her face down on the bed.

He tore her dress down the back, and ripped off her undergarments. He kicked the portmanteau onto the floor, then flung her over on her back and dropped his weight down hard between her knees.

She screamed and tried to sink her teeth into an earlobe but his weight pinned her and fighting was useless. She endured but her icy gaze was locked to his face the whole time.

And when finally he got off the bed and adjusted his clothing, he said, “Be gone by the time I get back.”

“You go to hell, you filthy dog. . . .”

He dealt her an openhanded smash. Her head rocked and she tasted blood. Then he hit her with the other hand. She tipped over on the bed. Seizing her by the hair, he jerked her face so that it was in range of his backhand. There were sodden sounds like slaps made with wet newspaper.

At last she lay back on the bed. Blood ran into the coverlet.

By then he was gone, the front door slammed so hard it seemed to rock the house. Somehow she crawled to where she could look into a mirror. Her ravaged face made her rush to a chamber pot where she vomited her late breakfast she had eaten in haste.

Then she gathered up her things and put on a fresh dress. She put a veil over her face, as if she were to do penance. Carrying the portmanteau, she finally ran into a boy. She gave him a dollar to carry the portmanteau to the hotel. There she paid for a room and signed her name. She asked for one on the ground floor.

Scrawny Del Watkins, who had been on duty as desk clerk, couldn't get the woman out of his mind. Later that morning he went to Shanagan's. A few drinks loosened his tongue. He told of glimpsing the woman's face when she partially lifted the veil so she could sign her name.

“Lordy, it was a terrible sight,” Watkins said, shaking his head. “Somebody beat the livin' hell out of that poor female. Wonder who she is.”

“What name'd she sign?” a man asked.

“R. Borjeau.” Watkins spelled it and shivered. “If she's got a man friend, whoever done the beatin' on her better watch out.”

The story spread. Kane Farrell yawned when he heard it. Bo Dancur got him aside. “I got a hunch she's the female you been keepin' out at your place. The one that come to town with that snake oil outfit.”

“If it is, she got in some bad company since. She left me over a week ago.”

“Kid that carried her trunk to the hotel was showin' off the dollar she give him. He said she was comin' from the direction of your place.”

Farrell smiled. “You know as well as I do that there are any number of houses between my place and the hotel.”

“Well, yeah . . .” Dancur rubbed his fleshy chin.

“I heard she took up with some drifter. He probably beat her up, then hit the trail.”

“Well . . . mebby . . . .”

Dancur gave Farrell a long look, then walked out of the saloon.

As Dancur pushed his way through the double doors, Farrell was thinking of certain changes that would be made around here once Lassiter was dead, courtesy of Lineus Swallow. Dancur was one of them.

“Lassiter?”

He heard Roma's voice and turned quickly. She stood a few feet away near the freight wagons in the big lot next to the Bluegate Mercantile. She wore a blue dress and a heavy black veil over her head.

“I recognized the voice, so I know it's you behind that veil.” He tried to smile, for he sensed she was troubled. When he stepped toward her, she backed up.

“Please, I don't want you to see me. I . . . I tried to ride a bad horse. I was thrown. I look horrible.”

Somehow it didn't ring true. Now that he looked closer he could see her black eyes through the veil and also faintly make out swellings on her face.

“I just wanted to say good-bye, Lassiter. And tell you I'm sorry and ashamed for losing my head and letting jealousy turn me to a man like Farrell. I . . . I don't blame you for being in love with that Vanderson woman. She . . . she's pretty . . .”

“What makes you think I'm in love with her?”

“You are. And she looks sweet. Sweeter than me. I've got a wildcat temper and I know it. . . .” Her voice broke and she knuckled tears through the veil.

Lassiter quickly stepped closer, took her in his arms. “I'm not in love with Melody Vanderson. She's just a friend. You came to say good-bye, so you said. Where are you going?”

“I'll find my people. My father had a husband picked for me. But I ran away and joined Doc and Rex. Now I'm going back. Because it's the only way I can live. I must marry and have children. I was wrong. I know it now.”

Before she could stop him, Lassiter lifted a corner of the veil, saw the swollen cheek, the eye nearly closed. She jerked the veil down.

“Don't!” she cried.

“Farrell did that to you?”

“It . . . it doesn't matter. I'm going away and I . . . I just wanted to see you one more time. Because I'll never see you again.”

She slipped out of his arms and ran toward the hotel.

He thought of going after her, but raw anger froze him where he stood. Of all the things Farrell had done, this was the most despicable. To beat a helpless woman. Although Roma hadn't told him it was Farrell, he knew as surely as if his name had been written across her forehead, where he had left his imprint in black and blue.

Once he made the delivery up at the Black Arrow Mine and before this day's sun dipped into night, he would kill Kane Farrell.

When Bert Oliver and the others came from the cafe where they had taken their noon meal, he had no appetite left for the sandwich they brought him.

“One of you eat it,” he said, trying to keep the hatred he felt for Farrell out of his voice. He didn't want to upset the men because they had a long, rough climb ahead of them.

Chapter Twenty-eight

From a grove of spindly aspen, not yet fully leafed out, Vance Vanderson watched the Northguard wagons begin the long haul upgrade to the Black Arrow Mine. A slight breeze had come up to stir the cottonwoods that had been planted along Casitas Street, which was a block over from Center. On this street were located the Farrell stables and warehouse, which formerly had belonged to Melody. Due to her own foolishness, she had allowed Farrell to euchre her out of the property. And she hadn't asked his advice, even though he was her Uncle Herm's son. One thing he had learned early in life, was to never accept blame. It was always the fault of someone else.

If Melody had let him handle things from the start, the freight line could have retained the Bluegate property Now she had done even worse by turning from him, her own husband, and taking up with that no-good Lassiter.

As Vanderson watched the wagons begin their long, slow climb to the mine, he remembered Farrell's promise made yesterday. At the time, Farrell was certain that Lassiter would be dead by this morning. It hadn't worked out that way, according to Rip Tolliver, who'd had enough whiskey in Shanagan's to loosen his tongue.

“Lassiter won't be around to see the sun overhead at high noon tomorrow,” Farrell had said yesterday, when Vanderson had been called out back of Shanagan's for a “conference.”

“Why are you so sure about Lassiter after all this time?”Vanderson had asked.

Farrell only gave him a wise smile, but refused to divulge details. Instead, he launched into his grand plan. It was to be an act that would turn everyone against Northguard and against Brad Dingell, who had refused to do business with Farrell Freight Lines under any condition.

“The runaway will no doubt crash right into my warehouse, which is at the end of the mine road. Nobody will attach it to me because they know I wouldn't wreck my own property. There'll be some dead around, no doubt about that, the innocents. And such an act will turn all the venom against Northguard and the Black Arrow Mine. Northguard will go under and Dingell will be hounded out of the county. I shouldn't wonder if Black Arrow isn't put up for sale at a rather reasonable figure.” A broad wink, a smile.

“I guess I don't follow you, Kane. What kind of an act are you talking about?”

Farrell peered down into the earnest face of the young hopeful. “A loaded freight wagon will get loose up at the mine and come streaking down the mine road like a projectile fired from a giant cannon.”

“How in the world is the freighter going to get loose?”

“Whoever's in charge tomorrow after Lassiter's demise—Bert Oliver, I presume—will give the mules a rest after the long haul. So they'll be unhitched from the wagons. It's the rear wagon, the one nearest town, that I'm interested in. The rear wheels will be blocked. Unblock them.”

“You mean . . .
me?”

Farrell nodded. “I've planted a man in the mine crew. Sam Allard, you know him. He'll give you a hand if you need it.”

“Why can't he do the job?”

“Because I'm paying
you,
Vance. I want a capable man so nothing goes wrong. You'll be in my organization, Vance. I'll make you a rich young man. Very rich.”

Farrell went into more detail, then suggested he scout the area. And yesterday afternoon Vanderson had done just that, pretending to Dingell that he was interested in a claim some distance above Black Arrow.

Dingell was pleasant enough, but Vanderson doubted that he was fooled about his knowledge of mining. Several times Dingell caught him in discrepancies. But Vanderson had quickly glossed over them, so perhaps the mine owner hadn't noticed.

He saw Allard, the man Farrell had planted among the Dingell employees. He was a stocky man in his late thirties, with a ruddy face. When he got a chance, Vanderson whispered a word, “Farrell.” Allard got the meaning and gave a slight dip of the head to show that he recognized a fellow Farrell man.

Vanderson felt he could count on Allard for any emergency which might arise, though he certainly wasn't expecting any. He had ridden down to Bluegate and reported to Farrell, who beamed and clapped him on the back like a benevolent uncle. Farrell took him to the hotel for a fine dinner and afterward drinks at Shanagan's.

And then this morning all hell had broken loose.

Lassiter was still alive and Farrell was meaner than a grizzly with a festering paw. Mean or not, he was more determined than ever to go ahead with his plan for the runaway freight wagon. So determined was he to bring down Northguard and Lassiter with it that he reinstated his original bonus of five thousand dollars. All Vanderson had to do was pull rocks from under the wheels of a wagon.