A Grave for Lassiter (13 page)

“Vance, I do appreciate your bringing me some money, but. . . .”

His right arm snaked out suddenly so that he caught her arm before she could draw back. “You look sleepy. Best we went to bed.”

“I just couldn't tonight, Vance,” burst from her lips. “I'm sorry, but I . . . I couldn't. . . .”

She fled to the bedroom, slammed the door and locked it.

The reaction was surprisingly mild compared to some of his tantrums when not getting his own way.

“You take all the time you want.” He spoke loud enough for her to hear him through the door. “Tomorrow's soon enough, though I sure got a big ache for you.”

In the morning she did something that she should have done before. But surprise at seeing him again and his windy tales about the preacher and the hard work he had done in order to earn money had thrown her off balance.

She told him about Lassiter.

He was lifting a forkful of eggs to his mouth. He dropped the fork. It took him a few moments to recover from his surprise. “You talking about
Lassiter?”

His obvious consternation pleased her greatly. She was only sorry she had not told him when he first arrived. He might have kept on going.

“Lassiter's dead,” he breathed.

“Very much alive.”

At his insistence, she told him as much as she knew about Lassiter's six month disappearance, his miraculous recovery from a near-fatal bullet wound.

“But I went to his funeral,” he said, sounding bewildered. What he said next surprised and disappointed her. She knew that Lassiter had no use for Vance and she assumed it worked both ways.

Vanderson said, “That's the best news I've heard in ages.” He sounded enthusiastic. “Ol' Lassiter alive. Will I be glad to shake his hand. Where is he?”

She told him about the new crew that Lassiter had taken up to Montclair.

“When he gets back I'll be more'n glad to do my share,” Vance said heartily.

He was energetically finishing the eggs she had cooked. Melody watched him, hands in her lap, not knowing what to say. She had thought that the mere mention of Lassiter being alive would cause him to hit the trail. But this apparently was a new Vance Vanderson, one she didn't know.

Perhaps, she conceded, the Reverend Collins had had some influence on him after all.

Chapter Thirteen

On a grade the air was filled with shouts from bullwhackers. The popping of their bullwhips made a sound like Chinese New Year.

Lassiter smiled at the overcast morning as the wagons creaked and rattled on the rough road. He thought back several days to when the residents of Aspen Creek had come to cheer them on their way. If the freight line proved to be a success, and it looked as if it might, then the whole area would prosper. And he intended that it would.

Drivers had different ideas about handling a team. Three of them preferred a jerkline. They would ride astride the near wheel mule, one hand on the jerkline, a long single rein threaded through loops and finally anchored at the bit of the lead mule. This animal would respond to jerks on the line which would signal it to turn right or left or come to a halt. The others mules followed its lead.

Lassiter rode up to the lead wagon where Bert Oliver was handling the reins. “Three more days and we'll be in Montclair,” Lassiter said to the lanky southerner.

Lassiter rode down the line, checking to make sure that each man had a rifle in a sling or scabbard within reach, as well as a revolver at the belt. It was so important in view of the contract between Northguard and the Bitterroot Mining Company. It called for one hundred sixty-five dollars a ton per day from Montclair to the foot of the mountains, and up the steep hill up to the Bitterroot. A fair enough price, he and Betancourt had agreed. And Melody certainly had seemed pleased when he spelled it out for her.

For now the mules were easy to handle because they were pulling empty wagons. But when they were loaded it would probably take some doing before they got over balking at the heavy loads.

At times Lassiter scouted ahead. Then he would travel half a mile or so along their backtrail to make sure there was no potential trouble. He began to fret. It was unlike Farrell to let them move so easily across the country.

The last time their paths had crossed was in New Mexico, where Lassiter had been instrumental in breaking up a gang of rustlers that was threatening to bankrupt the county. Farrell was behind it. They had always been enemies, but from then on the enmity was like a raw sore that would heal only when one of them was dead at the hands of the other. They were bound to tangle in a fight to the death. Farrell hated Lassiter with all the venom of a stepped-on rattler. It was a worry, knowing that despite the depths of Farrell's feelings, the man had made no move.

During the trip to Montclair, Lassiter began to think about Melody, with only Dad Hornbeck to protect her. If Farrell kept out of it, for one reason or another, and they were able to be paid for this initial contract, then all would be well. If Farrell didn't stay out of it . . . Lassiter refused to dwell on the possibility of failure.

But if Farrell did catch them by surprise, then all Lassiter prayed for was enough breath left in his body to finish the bastard off, to keep him from ruining Melody.

Each morning after ten or so Lassiter began to hunt for a clearing that could easily be reached from the road. On the fourth morning he found one quickly. Sam Birkener had been designated as cook. He was a fat, slow-moving man who usually wore a puzzled frown, as if he couldn't quite make out what was happening around him. That day he whipped up antelope stew for the noon meal, from the animal Lassiter had shot from the saddle an hour earlier.

As was customary on the early stop, the mules were watered by the teamsters. Swampers broke out the sacks of grain that were carried in each wagon. The mules were then fed in long canvas troughs to minimize waste. After the mules were turned loose onto the grass, the men had their noon meal. Shortly past noon they were ready to roll again.

So far, they had made nearly twenty miles a day. But of course the wagons were empty and there was a gentle downgrade all the way. It would be different coming back with a load.

Just before sundown, Lassiter ordered the train to corral by alternate wagons, the first wagon turning right, the second left, the others following suit until making a complete circle.

While this was being done, Lassiter rode on the perimeter of their camp far enough out to spot potential danger. But he turned up nothing. A cookfire sent sparks shooting into the darkening sky. When a breeze came up, the wagons parked close to a stand of pines had their sides brushed by tree limbs.

Lassiter returned from his scouting expedition in time to fill his plate with the last of the stew. The men had already eaten and were busily sanding their tin plates so as to have them ready for breakfast.

Shortly past midnight, Lassiter crawled out of his blankets. He reached out for his boots, fumbled in the darkness, then pulled them tight on his feet. He picked up his rifle and walked silently away from the sleeping men. Ahead were the mules, held in a rope corral under the watchful eye of Willie Barr. Barr was alert and hissed a challenge when he saw Lassiter's moving shadow.

Lassiter whispered his name and Barr relaxed.

“See anything?” Lassiter asked the lean shadow.

“Nary a thing, boss. You edgy?”

“A little. I don't know why. Something in the air, maybe. Indians say they listen to the leaves. A good idea.”

“Come to think of it, I feel kinda tight through the gut myself,” said Barr, looking over his shoulder into the darkness.

A blur of shadow caught Lassiter's eye at the periphery of his vision. Whatever it was moved swiftly between the two aspens.

“Who's out there!” Lassiter bellowed, cocking his Henry rifle.

A spot of orange-red blinked at him and a bullet screamed off the iron brace of a wagon tongue. He fired at the flash. A man moaned.

“Fred!” the same man cried. “The sunnuvabitch got me!”

More shouting and more shots. One of the panicked mules screamed and toppled over. Other animals surged against the rope corral, threatening to bring it down.

“Don't let 'em stampede!” Lassiter yelled. Doubled over, he darted into the trees, heading toward the man he had shot.

Behind him the camp was in an uproar. Men in ghostly longjohns grabbing rifles, shouting questions.

At a hard run, Lassiter stumbled over something yielding. And the next thing he knew he was falling forward to his knees as a gun went off almost in his face. Close enough to feel a faint scorching of powder burn across the right cheek. A man was crouched just ahead of him, coming now to his feet. Lassiter pumped a bullet into his middle. As the man collapsed, Lassiter sprinted toward a knot of mounted men. Their horses were milling about.

“Look out, there he is!” one of the men screeched, gesturing at Lassiter.

The sound died in him; a shot from Lassiter's rifle knocked him backward off the rump of his horse.

More shots were now cutting loose from the camp. Bullets slammed into trees. Deep in the shadowed pines, a horse let out a high-pitched scream, almost greater than the cry of pain from its rider. Lassiter at a panting run fired again. Another man went down, either from the Henry rifle or from a weapon in camp.

“Let's clear out!” came a man's strident cry from deeper in the trees.

As if in reply there was a sudden thunder of hoof beats as four horses, three with riders, the fourth riderless, burst across a clearing and into the aspens on the far side.

“Hold it!” Lassiter shouted back to the camp. “Hold your fire, boys. This is Lassiter.”

When no more shots came winging into the stand of timber, Lassiter cocked his head and listened to the diminishing sounds of horses on the run.

Sam Birkener, Oliver and several others came running up, stepping gingerly in their bare feet. It took cajolery and threats to finally get the mules quieted down. When this was done, Lassiter struck matches. Two men and a horse were down. The horse was thrashing about, uttering pitiful cries. Lassiter put his rifle muzzle to its head and pulled the trigger.

One of the attackers was still alive, but barely. The other was shot through the heart.

By flickering matchlight, Lassiter studied the wounded man. The man, lying on his back, was clenching and unclenching his hands. His midsection was soggy with blood.

Lassiter hunkered down, his face hard. Had it not been for him being awakened by some sixth sense, most of them could by now be dead in their blankets.

“How much did Farrell pay you for this?” Lassiter demanded softly.

“Lew, he's the one done the dickerin'. Lew, he said we . . . we had you dead to rights. . . .”

“You admit Farrell put you up to this.”

“Yeah,” the man gasped. “He's the one Lew dickered with. You better watch out for Lew. He'll be back an' your brains'll be on the ground.”

“Lew Tremont you talkin' about?” came Bert Oliver's southern drawl out of the shadows.

“If you know him,” the wounded man said defiantly, “you know there ain't nobody tougher.”

“This is Lew layin' here dead,” Oliver called over.

With great effort, the wounded man came to his elbows and looked at the dead face Oliver was lifting into the matchlight.

“Holy Kee-ryst,” the man said with a shudder.

The sight of the dead leader of the surprise attack, a bullet in the heart, seemed to stun him. Nerve as well as blood seemed to drain from his ravaged body. All that had kept him going was the hope of retribution by Lew Tremont. Now even that hope was dashed. One of his supporting elbows collapsed and he fell over on his side. When Lassiter tried to rouse him, he found that the man had expired.

“Anybody know him?” Lassiter asked as he held a lighted match alongside the dead face. But none of them had ever seen him before. His brutal features had not even relaxed in death.

Lassiter was reloading his rifle. Now that the fight appeared over, at least for the present, he felt a letdown. His nerves quivered. “From here on out, we better have night guards,” Lassiter said, “Tonight was too damned close.”

“You seen somebody move in them trees yonder,” said Willie Barr, the nighthawk. “Wasn't for you, ain't no tellin' where we'd be now.”

Lassiter volunteered for the first trick of guard duty and the lanky Oliver would side him until relieved by another pair who would remain awake until dawn.

After a hurried breakfast, they buried the two dead men. In one of Lew Tremont's pockets Lassiter had found an agreement between the man and Kane Farrell. Tremont was to become foreman of Farrell's Twin Horn Ranch.

Lassiter swore softly. Farrell would have to be hunting himself a new foreman. But the agreement definitely tied Farrell in with the dead Tremont. Something that might open Sheriff Bo Dancur's sleepy eyes. Perhaps not. It was no secret that the sheriff and Farrell seemed to hit it off. A mighty important development in the months Lassiter had been away recovering from his wound.

It was a sober outfit that pulled onto the road that morning to continue the trek to Montclair. They couldn't help but consider themselves fortunate. Two of the enemy in their graves but not a one of the Northguard outfit even scratched.

“Don't brag about it,” Lassiter cautioned. “Might change our luck.”

But he knew they spoke the truth. If the night riders had been able to stampede the mules, they could have shot down Lassiter's men at their leisure as they leaped from their blankets.

Finally, when they were being worn thin with boredom on the long rough road, Lassiter went ahead to scout. He was soon back, after seeing a blur of smoke on the horizon.

“We're almost there!” he shouted and the men cheered.

That noon they made camp in a clearing next to a huge warehouse of unpainted lumber, so new the air reeked with the smell of green lumber. Lassiter glanced at the town, a collection of shacks for railroad and warehouse workers. There was less than a block of rutted street that comprised the business district of Montclair, a saloon, brothel, and general store.