A Grave for Lassiter (3 page)

“There he is now,” Farrell hissed. “The gent I was talking about.”

“You mean the one with the mustache?” Dutch Holzer asked, squinting out of black eyes.

“That one's about as deadly as a sick gnat. Hell, no, the other one, about your size, Dutch . . . .”

“Hell, I know Lassiter,” towering Ed Kiley spoke up. “I recollect him when he used to come a visitin' Josh Falconer.”

“I want him dead,” Farrell hissed through his teeth.

“Every time I get the money mill swinging my way, it seems that bastard horns in. But not this time.”

“How much you pay, Farrell?” Ed Kiley asked, turning his large head to Farrell.

“The job's worth two thousand.”

Dutch Holzer whistled. “A thousand each, huh?”

“Don't do it in town. Wait till he leaves—which he will. I have a hunch he'll be trying to get Northguard's wagons rolling again.”

Chapter Three

Dad Hornbeck, a bald and graying man, shook hands with Lassiter and said he was glad, for Melody's sake, that the freight line had two stalwarts to help out now that Josh was gone and Herm was laid up. But when the old man spoke, he gave Vanderson a slightly dubious look.

There was one fairly large bedroom in the Aspen Creek office where Hornbeck slept. He offered them the bed, but Lassiter said they'd spread their blankets on the office floor. Vanderson pointed out that they would have more comfort at the town's small hotel.

“We're trying to save every dollar,” Lassiter reminded the younger man.

Early the next morning, Lassiter herded eight mules up the steep grade out of Aspen City. A grumbling Vanderson drove a light wagon that held ropes and harness for the team. It was a clear day, without a cloud to mar the azure dome of the sky. Golden aspens lined the steep road and the cottonwoods were dropping their leaves. Wild geese formed long triangles in the sky as they headed south. Nature seemed to be holding a deep breath before the first onslaught of snows that would block some of the passes till spring.

Lassiter knew there was no time to waste. A freight wagon had to be put back in service so shipments could be made before the cold months settled in.

Finally Vanderson got over his grouch long enough to speak civilly. “Tell me about Josh. I never did get to meet him. And even what I don't know about Herm would fill a barrel.”

“Herm gave me one of my first jobs. He was foreman of a cattle outfit over in New Mexico. He had a nice wife, but she died young.”

“Then he married my ma and she died as well.” Vanderson shook his head.

“I met Josh when he came through one time and stopped over at the ranch. The two brothers were never close in those days. But they mellowed later on.”

An hour later Lassiter had his first look at the mired wagon. It rested in the center of a swiftly flowing stream, sunk in mud well above the hubs. One quick sweep of his blue eyes enabled Lassiter to get the picture. Someone had widened the creek to accomodate the whole wagon and had also dug into the creek bed to make it soft enough for the wheels to sink.

When Melody saw the wagon a week before, she had despaired of ever getting it out. The men she took along had confirmed the impossibility.

When the wagon was freed and Lassiter returned to Aspen City, he intended to look the crew over and fire those he suspected of having helped put her rolling stock out of commission. He hadn't had a chance as yet to look at the two disabled wagons higher in the mountains, but this job of miring the wagon had been done deliberately. He confirmed it by wading around it a time or two and studying the creek bed. Everywhere else the bed was solid.

Vanderson sat on the creek bank watching Lassiter flounder around the wagon, the waters flowing just below his knees.

“Got a strong hunch that Kane Farrell is mixed up in this,” Lassiter called to the younger man, who evidently preferred not to get his boots wet.

“Why this fellow Farrell?”Vanderson wanted to know.

“The kind of stunt he likes to pull.”

“Reckon you know him well.”

“Too damn well. I've been able to cut him off at the pockets a few times.”

Lassiter's face hardened at the memory of Farrell down near the border, rustling Mexican cattle, altering the brands then selling them in the States for half the market value. When a widow, desperate to recoup cattle losses, had purchased a herd from Farrell, Lassiter had moved in. And this just before the Mexican owner, with the help of a sheriff, was about to reclaim his cattle. Farrell had done a sloppy job with a running iron so that the Mexican brands, though blotched, were easily detected.

When Vanderson made no move to lend a hand, Lassiter said, “Get off your butt, Vance, and let's get this job done.”

Flushing at the rebuke, Vanderson helped Lassiter herd the mules into the creek. Some of them were reluctant and Lassiter had to use his catch rope. Finally, with the cold water pressing at his knees, they got them harnessed. Then he told Vanderson to get in the seat of the freight wagon and use the bullwhip that had been brought along. Not to cut an animal's flesh, but to pop it above their heads to frighten them into movement.

“You must have been in the army,” Vanderson said with a tight grin, “the way you like to give orders.”

“I'm trying to save this outfit for Herm and his niece. Not to mention myself. . . .”

“I figured you were worried about the money you put into it.”

“You must stay awake nights trying to figure out ways to rub people the wrong way.”

Under the impact of Lassiter's cold blue eyes, Vanderson's rather handsome face slowly drained of color. “Didn't mean anything, Lassiter. Guess I'm still shocked that my Uncle Josh is dead. . . .”

Lassiter looked at him. Not your Uncle Josh, he wanted to tell him. You're no blood kin at all.

“. . . and I'm still worrried about Uncle Herm getting shot,”Vanderson continued.

There was a relationship there, Lassiter had to admit, but only because Herm had married a woman with a gangling adolescent son.

“You drive the team,” Lassiter instructed. “I'll prod these bastards,” meaning the mules.

He had cut off a ten-foot aspen limb with an ax he had brought along in the light wagon. He trimmed the pole, then mounted up and used it to give each mule a jab while Vanderson cracked the bullwhip. At last Lassiter got the mules lunging into their collars. After several attempts, the wheels creeped a few inches in the mud.

When Lassiter took a breather to rest the mules, he pointed downcreek some thirty yards at an opening in the long, rounded hill. “That's where I helped Josh cut timber for shoring. He had bought the claim after the owner's wife took sick and the man wanted to go back to Missouri.”

Vanderson, hunched in the wagon seat, splashed from creek water, said, “Don't look like much to me.”

Again they tried to dislodge the wagon. Lassiter yelled at the straining mules. But the wheels settled back into their original grooves.

Lassiter finally gave Vanderson his horse and climbed into the wagon where he stood, feet wide-spread, reins in one hand, bullwhip in the other.

“Jab 'em, Vance!” Lassiter shouted as the whip cracked like rifle shots.

All of it, combined with Lassiter's authoritative roar, caused the mules to expend additional effort. Hooves dug into the well-spaded creekbed. With a creak of wagon frame and wheels, it began to move, inch by inch, Lassiter's whip popping, Vanderson jabbing with the pole. With a great sucking sound the wheels finally pulled free of the mud and reached the solid creek bottom.

Lassiter turned the wagon onto a grassy strip beside the road. Mules and wagon dripped onto the dry ground. Vanderson rode Lassiter's horse up beside the wagon and dismounted. Lassiter took the reins and looped them around the saddlehorn.

“Why'd you do that?”Vanderson accused, pointing at the reins.

“I'm training him.” But by then Vanderson had lost interest.

“Well, we did it, Lassiter. I knew it would work the minute I suggested I use the pole and you handle the reins. . . .”

“I don't recollect you suggesting it.”

“You never want to give anybody credit for a damn thing.”

Lassiter decided to let it go. Vanderson had walked down to the mine tunnel and was peering in. After tying the mule team to a stump, Lassiter followed him.

“So this is Uncle Josh's silver mine,” Vanderson mused.

“A hole in the hill is all it is now,” Lassiter said, after looking into the maw. Someone had removed all the shoring he and Josh had erected with the help of a crew. Lumber pulled out to be used as firewood, perhaps. Or shoring for another mine. The nearby mountains and hills were pock marked with shafts. Lassiter glanced at the sky. It was mid-morning. If they hurried, they might be able to get the wagon down to Bluegate before sundown.

“Did Josh ever get much silver out of here?” Vanderson asked.

“Not much that I know of. He gave up on it.”

“When was that?”

Lassiter thought back. “Seven or eight years ago. Melody and her mother were visiting. Melody was just a bony kid.”

“Not bony now,”Vanderson mused, “but dimpled and rounded.”

“I noticed you making sure of that.”

Vanderson stared at the tunnel opening. “Be something if there was silver in there after all. I'd be rich.”

“
You'd
be rich. Herm and Melody would be, maybe, but . . .”

“You always leave me out of everything.” Vanderson looked petulant. “I'm family too, you know.”

“Simmer down, Vance.” Lassiter was getting tired of his whining. But he'd have to put up with it till Herm arrived. Because the mules had had such a hard pull out of the mud, Lassiter decided to give them a further rest. “Want to go inside and have a look?”

“Sure. You know silver ore when you see it?”

“Not always.” He mentioned the lack of shoring, the network of posts and planks intended to keep walls and ceiling from falling. “Let me go first,” he suggested.

They had just stepped inside the entrance when a man drawled, “You gents on a picnic?”

Lassiter spun, hand sweeping for his gun. But Vanderson gave a cry and got in the way. Besides, the man who had spoken already had the drop on him. The man was in his early thirties, with coarse wheat-colored hair leaking from beneath the brim of a stained hat. He was tall and heavy through the shoulders. Lassiter recognized him now. It was Ed Kiley, whom he remembered from a previous visit. His cocked .45 wavered. Kiley seemed halfway drunk.

“Put up the gun, Kiley,” Lassiter said in a hard voice.

A second man moved out of the trees. He was black-haired and about Lassiter's height. He grinned, pointing at Lassiter's belt buckle.

“I admire that there silver belt buckle.” He also held a gun. Lassiter swore softly for letting the pair sneak up on them, but the sounds of the creek had covered their approach.

“The L on the buckle is for Lassiter,” Kiley said with a laugh.

“I'll be damned,” the second man said. “Around here they call me Dutch. But my name's really Larry. That buckle'd be fine for me, now wouldn't it? L for Larry, see?”

“Do a jig for us, Lassiter,” Kiley drawled.

“Go to hell!”

Both men fired into the tunnel floor, ricochets barely missing Lassiter's feet. He gave the tunnel ceiling a nervous glance because of the concussion. By then, Vanderson had crouched behind Lassiter, his face drained.

“Long as we got these two hombres penned up,” Kiley said, “it's time you give me my share of the money. You been keepin' it long enough. Come on, turn it over, Dutch.”

“We got to finish Lassiter first,” Dutch Holzer chuckled. “That's what we're bein' paid for, ain't it?”

“You got the money in two sacks,” Kiley went on, sounding faintly angry. “I seen Farrell give 'em to you, a thousand in each sack.”

“Shut up about it, Ed.”

“Gimme my sack an' then I'll shut up.”

There were more shots, the concussion so strong in the tunnel that Lassiter thought his eardrums would burst. Holzer was enjoying himself.

“Any more shooting,” Lassiter pointed out coldly, “and it might bring down the roof.” He was poised on his toes, ready to make a move.

“Fall on you, not us, if it does,” Holzer said and fired again. Lassiter tensed but the ceiling didn't collapse.

As the two men argued about the money there at the tunnel entrance, Lassiter began backing slowly, pushing the trembling Vanderson behind him.

“Ten feet more and the tunnel makes a bend,” Lassiter hissed. “That's where we'll make a stand.”

Holzer said, “Pass me the bottle, Ed.”

Kiley grumbled something then removed a quart bottle from a pocket of his faded canvas jacket. He passed it to Holzer. The bottle was half full. Holzer, keeping his eyes and gun on Lassiter, took a long pull.

“Tell you what, Lassiter,” Holzer said with a grin. “Toss me that shiny belt buckle an'we'll let you go.”

“Farrell won't like it.” Lassiter was backing slowly, in deeper shadows now so that the pair in the entrance had to bend low to squint at them.

Out in the road the mule team stood patiently, heads down. Near the wagon, Lassiter's black horse nibbled at a crop of grass that had escaped the scorching summer sun.

“Stand hitched, Lassiter,” Holzer warned in his grating voice. He was hunched now, a few feet inside the tunnel, tall and with a face as dark as Lassiter's. Kiley was slightly behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“We had our fun, let's get the job done,” Kiley said.

Vanderson suddenly screamed. “They're gonna kill us!”

Vance whirled so suddenly that he lost his balance when he stepped on a loose stone. He crashed into Lassiter. A bullet sang above Lassiter's head. But Lassiter was falling. He fired at Holzer and missed.