A Grave for Lassiter (11 page)

That same day Lassiter rode into the mountains for a talk with Saul Betancourt, superintendent of the Bitterroot Mine, who had been waiting since the previous fall for equipment that would enable him to start the construction of a smelter.

Betancourt, a lean man in high-laced boots and wearing a heavy jacket, greeted Lassiter gravely. “I heard about the trouble you gave Adams over at the Glory Mine. He's a pompous ass. I guess you taught him a lesson.”

Betancourt listened to what Lassiter had to say about the shipment up at Montclair. Then he sighed and ran a hand over short-cropped brown hair. “I more or less promised the business to Farrell.”

But Lassiter argued the case for Northguard. And when he had finished, Betancourt said, “I agree with everything you say. Sure I realize that Farrell is undercutting your price to drive Northguard out of business.”

“If that happens,” Lassiter put in, “freight rates will go high as the moon. He'll not only be top dog in these parts, but the only dog.”

“And he'll have every mining company in a box,” Betancourt added.

“In a box with the lid nailed down.”

Betancourt thought about it. They were in his spacious office with its wall maps and surveying equipment. A window overlooked a new tunnel that a crew of men were digging into the side of a mountain.

“Lassiter, do you think you can handle the shipment?”

“I've got good men. We'll handle it.”

For a moment Betancourt studied the rugged looking man with the penetrating blue eyes. Then a broad grin broke across his brown face. “Tell you the truth, I've been hesitant about Farrell. A gent with his rep as a cardsharp is apt to deal off the bottom of the deck in business matters as well.”

“I wouldn't trust him any further than I could see a scorpion's shadow.”

Betancourt laughed, then pursed his lips and fingered the brass-framed spectacles that rested on his button nose. “I thought for a time the railroad might run a spur line down here. But no chance of that now, I understand. And I do want to get that smelter built.”

“You keep the stuff you need for the smelter coming to Montclair. We'll see that you get fast delivery up here at Bitterroot.”

“I've a hunch you won't let Farrell push you around.”

“It may not be easy,” Lassiter admitted. “But here in the West, what is?”

Lassiter was just entering Aspen Creek the next morning when he saw a blooded roan at the rail in front of Northguard headquarters. Lassiter dismounted next to the splendid animal. It bore a fine saddle with KF etched in the saddle skirt.

He heard voices coming from the office. First Melody's then Kane Farrell's, through a partially opened window.

“. . . and I think the offer is fair enough,” Farrell was saying smoothly.”

“I suppose it is from your standpoint.” Melody sat at the table that was used as a desk, nervously shuffling some papers. Farrell stood before her, hands behind his back. He was half-turned so that Lassiter could see the classic profile.

“I'm sure you understand by now that running a freight line is no business for a female.”

Through the window Lassiter saw Melody's chin come up and for a moment thought Farrell had said the wrong thing. He was surprised to see Melody's shoulders slump, as if the fight had gone out of her.

“I . . . I do dread violence,” she said in a voice so low it barely carried to the window.

“I've only given you a few facts, Mrs. Vanderson. The innocent will suffer if this foolish feud is allowed to continue.”

“I'm thinking of Dad Hornbeck wounded. And Lord knows how many others before it's over.”

“As I explained, there are always those on the fringe who would shoot an old man like Hornbeck. Just to try and cut themselves a piece of cake, so to speak.”

“An old man like that, shot for no reason,” she said in despair.

“That's the way those things happen. Who knows who may be next? As I said earlier, perhaps even Lassiter.”

She bit her lips. “Oh, no. . . .”

“He's lived a charmed life. But a lot of men want to see him dead.”

“A horrible way to live, with that threat hanging over his head.”

“He'd be better off to go deep into Mexico and live out his days. He'll last longer than he will around here.”

“You really think so?”

Farrell nodded and drew a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of a knee-length leather coat. His breeches were fawn colored. The only blemish to his attire were some specks of mud around the built-up heels of his dark brown boots.

“If you'll just sign this agreement, Mrs. Vanderson. Your freight line in exchange for my Bank draft of four thousand dollars. Which I say is quite fair, under the circumstances.”

The sound of the door opening caused Farrell to turn his head. His green eyes narrowed at the sight of Lassiter. He gave a curt nod of recognition.

“I understood from the villagers that you were to be gone at least three days,” Farrell said through lips thinned from pressure.

“You are back early,” Melody said. Then, “Mr. Farrell has offered to buy me out. . . .”

“So I heard.” Lassiter kept his eyes on the dandified Farrell. “Business up the mountain didn't take as long as I figured.” He closed the door.

“What do you think I should do, Lassiter?” Melody asked in a tight voice.

“Take his offer, if you want. Maybe consider yourself lucky. Then you can head back east where you belong.”

That caused her to straighten up in the chair, shoulders squared, mouth set in a stubborn line. “You mean just . . . just quit?” Then she struck the desktop with a small fist, making the inkwell jump. “Well, for your information, I intend to fight for what is right.”

Lassiter gave a fierce smile. “Glad to hear you say that.”

An angry flush darkened Farrell's cheeks. “I suggest you pay my offer careful consideration, Mrs. Vanderson. Don't let Lassiter's presence sway you.”

“It was my decision,” Melody said firmly. “Lassiter had nothing to do with it.” Her voice no longer wavered, indicating a woman unable to make up her own mind.

When Farrell started to speak angrily, Lassiter shook his head. “Leave her alone,” he warned.

Farrell's height seemed to increase above the six-foot mark as he drew himself up. His sculptured chin lifted. In the deadly silence, his right hand fingers twitched only inches from the open front of his leather coat, itching to reach for a weapon. Lassiter tensed, ready for him.

Abruptly, Farrell strode to the door. “By the way, Sheriff Dancur rode up with me today. He happened to have some business at the store here.” Then his green eyes swung to Melody. “I hope you don't awaken some midnight and realize the awful forces you've unleashed by your unwillingness to accept a fair offer.”

“Get out of here, Farrell,” Lassiter said coolly. “And don't come back.”

Lassiter stepped outside in case, sheriff's presence or not, Farrell made a try for his gun. At least out here Melody would be spared the possibility of being hit by a bullet.

But Farrell rode down the street, past the Aspen Saloon. Two men came riding out from the far side of the building. Lassiter's lips formed a hard grin. Farrell hadn't risked coming up here alone. He recognized Ed Kiley's towering figure. The small and dark man he didn't know. In a few moments, Bo Dancur came swaggering out of the store, mounted up and they all started down the steep road to Bluegate.

Melody came to stand at Lassiter's side. “For a minute there I almost thought you wanted me to sell,” she said, looking up at him, the sun shining on her golden hair. “I'd have given you all of the four thousand. It certainly wasn't as much as you put into the company, but . . .”

“I was hoping you'd show Farrell some backbone. And you did.” He smiled at her.

Then he told about the agreement with Betancourt of the Bitterroot Mining Company.

“How wonderful, Lassiter!” she cried, clapping her hands. “We'll make it yet. The two of us.”

That was when he noticed the tenderness in her eyes, the sweet smile. His face closed. In the first place, she was married, despite what had happened between them that rainy night in the mountains. Besides that, as soon as Herm was able to come to Aspen City and take over for his niece, Lassiter intended to clear out. Lately he had noticed little things Melody let slip, the way she looked at him, all since that night after he had saved her shipment at the Glory Mine. But he knew he couldn't just ride off and leave Herm and Melody to face the ambitious Kane Farrell. No, that part of it he'd have to solve before he pulled out for new horizons.

To handle the big load from rail's end at Montclair to the Bitterroot Mine in the mountains would take an additional nine wagons, Lassiter estimated. He put out word that he wanted teamsters with wagons to work on a percentage. He was also hiring a crew, so went the story that was soon spread over the Bluegate Basin.

Teamsters with one or two wagons, who had been working the short end of the stick because of the bad winter, came in with him. Some had to be sent on their way because Lassiter knew their equipment would never stand the pounding of all those rough miles.

He wanted a crew of twenty-six men, two men to each of the twelve wagons, plus two more to take care of the extra mules. He finally got four teamsters with wagons and managed to buy five more with payment deferred until fall. On the same basis he picked up the mules needed for the long drive.

One prerequisite for being hired on by Northguard was that each man have a rifle and revolver and ammunition. Northguard lacked the funds to supply additional arms, Lassiter explained.

Melody went around humming under her breath, the gray eyes had a new sparkle.

Even Dad Hornbeck noticed the change in her. “Our gal Melody looks as happy as if she'd been out all day smellin' the wild flowers.”

Most of the hired men had experience on freight lines. Those without experience were shown the rudiments of mule skinning. Lassiter couldn't be too particular, men for hire were hard to come by. Word of the trouble between Northguard and Farrell made many would-be prospects back off.

Each driver was furnished with twenty feet of rawhide attached to a two-foot hickory handle, with a buckskin popper on the end. The indispensible bull whip.

Experts practicing in the wagon yard sent their bull whips cracking with such regularity that it sounded like a miniature cannonade. Lassiter was pleased with the wrangler and nighthawk who had been hired on, both hard-jawed men with hands scarred from years of roping.

At first, Lassiter had leaned toward using oxen rather than mules. And Bert Oliver, who had had some experience in freighting, agreed that oxen were probably better for hauling heavy machinery, even though they were slower. One advantage was that they could live off grass alone and in this high country spring grass was plentiful. For mules, grain would have to be hauled, which meant a loss of valuable cargo space. But when it came right down to it, Lassiter wondered where he would be able to round up a hundred and fifty head of oxen, including replacements, on such short notice. So he decided it would be mules.

After the big crew was hired, each man took turns at cooking. Oliver wondered aloud if it wasn't a woman's place to cook full time. But Lassiter shook his head. “She's got other things to do, Bert. Same as the rest of us.”

“But the good Lord put her an' her kind on earth to take care of men folks. At least that's what my Pa always said.”

“Times are changing. There's a woman up in Colorado who runs a cattle ranch. And one back in Kansas I've heard of who's farming four sections of land. The only help they get is from the men they hire.”

Oliver looked skeptical and rubbed one of his bushy sideburns. “If my Daddy could come back from the grave an' hear this, he'd plumb drop through the floor.”

“The way I've got it figured, Bert,” Lassiter said with a tight smile, “It's your night to scrape up a meal for us.”

They ate together and then spread their blankets in the cramped quarters. Because there wasn't room for all of them inside, some slept in the yard under the trees.

The evening before they were to pull out, Melody asked Lassiter to have supper with her. She had made a delicious stew and a pie of dried apples. During the meal, she talked of her girlhood in the east.

“My uncles never liked my father, although I never understood why,” Melody said between sips of coffee. “But after he died, they seemed to mellow and forgave their sister, my mother. They would send us money, which my mother always returned. She was the unforgiving one, it seems. Although we did come out to visit Uncle Josh one time.”

Lassiter well remembered the scrawny girl and buxom mother.

As they were finishing the pie, Melody asked for more details about his life when he was recovering from the near-fatal wound. When he spoke of Roma, his voice softened and he sat staring at the plank wall that was splashed with lamplight.

“Were you in love with her?” Melody probed, watching him through thick, pale lashes.

“She was a friend. A good friend.”

“From your voice, I think it was deeper than friendship.” A little catch in Melody's voice caused Lassiter to turn in his chair to stare at her. The chair creaked from his weight. The wick of the single lamp was smoking slightly. He leaned over and turned it down.

All of a sudden she seemed forlorn. He reached across the table and took her hands. “Don't be jealous of Roma.” Then he added with a faint grin, “Maybe I'm the one who should be jealous, you with a husband . . . .”

It was just something that had slipped out. Suddenly her gray eyes seemed filled with hope.

“Vance will never come back,” she said, the light of joy gone from her eyes. “I'll have to take the rather drastic step for a woman and file for divorce.” She looked at Lassiter. “And that will be the end of Mr. Vance Vanderson, so far as I'm concerned.”