A Grave for Lassiter (18 page)

“Stand hitched,”Vanderson said from behind him, “or I'll blow a hole in your spine I can ram a fist through.”

A door at the end of a hallway opened to a bedroom. Through the doorway he could see Melody sitting tensely on the edge of a bad.

“Lassiter,” she said hoarsely, her voice tormented.

She was with three women. The tall strapping woman he recognized as the local madam. He didn't know the girls, but could guess their occupation.

“Close the door, Blanche,” Farrell ordered. The door closed. He turned to Lassiter. “She's safe enough, for now.”

“What the hell is this all about?” The gun muzzle was still grinding against his back.

“You'll find out tomorrow.”

“Turn her loose,” Lassiter demanded. “Then you and I can settle our differences.”

Farrell laughed harshly. “We'll settle our differences, but in a way you're not expecting.”

Lassiter narrowed his eyes, wondering what Farrell meant. But before he had time to reflect the front door opened. Ed Kiley and another man he didn't know entered the parlor. Both of them held rifles at the ready.

“We buried Holzer, thinkin' it was you,” Kiley said roughly. “Next time we won't make no such mistake.”

Farrell said, “If you make any fool move, Melody Vanderson is a goner. Remember that, my friend.”

Lassiter turned his head as far as it would go and glared back at Vanderson. “You'd let him threaten your wife?”

“Shut up, Lassiter,” Farrell warned. “Kiley, not too hard now.” And a rifle barrel crashed against the side of Lassiter's head. He sank down into a sea of blinding white lights and then a rush of darkness.

When he regained consciousness he was lying on a large bed, wearing leg irons. His hands were manacled in front. A rope looped through the manacles was tied to a bedpost. Kiley and the other man occupied chairs, rifles across their laps.

“Tell me, Kiley, just what is this all about?” Lassiter said. His head throbbed and his stomach was all knotted up in worry over Melody.

“You just set. You'll be fed in an hour or so. An' you can take care of yourself. But you make any fool moves an' Lew here has got orders to shoot the gal. I'll take care of you.”

Farrell had opened the door to hear the last. “Believe him, Lassiter. Every word he said is true.”

“And I even get fed. The condemned has the final meal, eh?”

“Don't act so glib. I want you hale and hearty for tomorrow.” Farrel's smile was icy as he closed the door.

Somehow Lassiter sweated out the long night. He catnapped only to awaken with a start to realize his surroundings. Kiley's companion at one time was snoring softly in his chair, but Kiley was wide awake, his eyes glittering in the glow of a turned-down lamp.

Finally a faint streak of gray lighted the eastern sky. Lassiter's mouth tasted as if it had been a camp for beavers. His arms were asleep because of their awkward position tied to the bedpost.

After breakfast, the rope attached to the manacles was removed and he was able to sit up in bed and eat three eggs and a mound of potatoes. He learned that Blanche was the cook, which proved she had talents other than dispensing pleasure to lonely males. At one time her establishment had been on Joy Street, but indignant housewives, who were flocking into the town by then, had managed to get it changed from a suggestion of pleasure to plain E Street.

As the morning hours crept by, Lassiter was suddenly aware of a distant humming sound. He'd been hearing it for some time, but it hadn't registered until then. It reminded him of a great swarm of bees. He knew what it really was. Voices. Hundreds of them.

Then he was remembering his arrival in town yesterday, the unusual activity, men swarming in the streets. Others were crowding into town by horseback and wagon. Probably payday, had crossed his mind. It was one thing that would lure not only cowhands and miners to Bluegate but also ranchers and their families from the scrub outfits out on the flats.

There were few fine ranches such as Farrell's Twin Horn, which he'd won from Silas Borodenker in a midnight poker game. Two days after signing over his ranch, the old man had gone out to the privy behind Shanagan's, put the muzzle of a carbine into his mouth and worked the trigger with a big toe. They found him slumped on the four-holer, his brains on the plank wall.

One more mark against Farrell, Lassiter was thinking as his ankles were untied from the bedposts. He was ushered into the parlor. Farrell stood in front of the cold fireplace, looking amused. He gave Lassiter a slight bow in the manner of a grand duke. Today he wore a corduroy jacket and brown pants. His boots bore a high polish.

Vanderson entered the room, losing color when he saw Lassiter's glare.

“Is Melody all right?” Lassiter demanded.

“Perfectly,” Farrell said. He jerked a thumb at Vanderson, who walked down a long hallway and flung open a bedroom door. Melody could be seen sitting on the edge of the bed. Her wrists and ankles were roped so that she was bent over.

“Untie her, for Crissakes,” Lassiter shouted.

“That's for her husband to determine. She's in his hands now.” Farrell seemed to be enjoying himself. “Blanche and her girls have done their job. And very well, I might add.”

Then he stepped to the mantel where Lassiter's .44 and Henry rifle had been placed. Farrell said, “I like the heft of your revolver, Lassiter. I'll keep it for my personal weapon. Each time it is fired, I'll think of you.”

Lassiter glanced along the hallway, feeling helpless. Melody still sat on the bed, chin up, eyes steady, although she probably had had little sleep. Not that her goddamned husband could care. Had it not been for her being so close, he would have tried some desperate move. To make any rash attempt to escape would only endanger her life. He looked at Vanderson, who had come back to the parlor, trying on his boyish smile under the mustache. But it wavered.

Farrell was gesturing at the wide belt with the silver buckle and initial L that was displayed above the fireplace. “I'll have it polished and put in a glass case,” Farrell said. “A reminder of how I won the game after all.” He gave Lassiter a hard smile.

“You haven't won it yet,” Lassiter reminded, which caused Farrell to laugh.

Farrell turned on Vanderson. “Keep an eye on your wife.”

“But I'd like to see it. Can't you fix it so I can?”

“See
what?”
Lassiter cut in narrowly.

Farrell ignored him. “If somehow she should get loose,” Farrell was saying, “are you man enough to kill her?” Farrell used the same tone of voice as if saying, “Are you you man enough to finish your whiskey?” That was the worth of a human life to Farrell, Lassiter thought grimly.

Vanderson licked his lips. “You and me all the way, Kane. You know that for sure now.”

It was hard for Lassiter to realize that the boyish face was twisted in eagerness to have Farrell believe him. Lassiter tried to inject a measure of doubt as he said, “Whatever Farrell's promised, Vanderson, you'll find out it's only dead ash.”

“Farrell will keep his word with me,” Vanderson said firmly.

“By the time you find out, it'll be too late for you,” Lassiter pointed out.

“Keep your mouth shut, Lassiter,” Farrell ordered calmly. “I'm sick of your voice. Thank God, after today I won't have to hear it ever again.” He gave Lassiter such a look of triumph that Lassiter felt a knifing chill spread across his shoulders.

Farrell glanced at the face of a thick gold watch. “Almost time. Are you ready, Lassiter?” He drew a gun from under his coat.

“Ready for what?”

Two men entered the parlor. Lassiter recognized them as hands from Farrell's Twin Horn outfit. Farrell jerked his head at Vanderson, who strode down the hall to the bedroom. There he removed a gun from under his coat and held the muzzle deep in Melody's thick golden hair. Her face blanched.

Under Farrell's cocked gun, Lassiter's manacles were removed. His wrists and upper arms were then roped, hands behind his back. Then he was pushed out to the veranda. His black horse stood saddled at the foot of the steps.

For two solid weeks the sale of tickets at Shanagan's had been brisk. Each ticket represented hard-earned money. Five silver dollars each was a high price to pay for entertainment in a lonely outpost such as Bluegate. But the promise of witnessing sheer drama instead of being faced with the usual dull days made it seem worthwhile.

Although the purchaser of each ticket had been warned to keep his mouth shut, some couldn't help but let it slip to their wives. Most of the male population was womanless, but in this instance the few wives banded together. Today's so-called “entertainment” was too much. It amounted to cold-blooded murder. A delegation of indignant women marched to the sheriff's office the day of the event only to find a hand-lettered sign in the office window stating that Bo Dancur had gone north on County business, along with his deputy, and wouldn't return for several days.

Even so, the ladies had been able to dissuade a few of the ticket buyers from attending what they termed a pagan carnival.

Roma was astounded by the activity in Bluegate. It wasn't a Western village, but verging on a metropolis. “Rex, this is where I will live and raise my children!” she cried.

Rex Ambrose gave her a tolerant smile.

Doc's experienced eye was roving the crowded streets, seeking a good spot to set up their operation. He found one in vacant land adjoining the Mercantile. With the tom-tom, Roma's flashing teeth, agile body and swaying midnight hair, plus Doc's mellifluous tones, they soon had an audience. While Doc was making his lofty presentation concerning the elixir from ancient Cathay, Roma tugged at the sleeve of a passing middle-aged woman.

“Do you happen to know a man named Lassiter?” Roma asked, her black eyes shining with excitement.

The woman turned on her as if she might have been a leper. “Do I know him? He cost my man five dollars we sorely needed for other things. That's what he's done. I wish him no good luck on this black Saturday.”

The woman, herding two small wide-eyed children along the walk, left Roma in a momentary state of confusion. But it soon passed as the slender aristocratic looking Rex played a drum roll on his tom-tom. Her cue for another wild session of gypsy dancing, much to the enjoyment of the crowd.

She wondered about the murmur of voices coming from a large building on an adjoining street. More of a subdued roar than a murmur, come to think of it, she decided. Men were streaming toward the building entrance, kicking up dust, laughing, pounding one another on the back, acting like excited schoolboys about to sneak into some forbidden circus sideshow.

Chapter Nineteen

At the north end of town, Lassiter was marched to his saddle horse at the foot of the veranda steps by the two Twin Horn men. Each held a rifle which they used as prods. They were replacements for Ed Kiley and his companion, who were dozing after the long night as guards for Lassiter.

Farrell, a look of excitement on his rather handsome face, was already mounted on a bay. He began to play out a catch rope to make a loop.

One of the Twin Horn men, Parky Brimmer, lank and with a frozen grin, was forcing Lassiter into the saddle. He was mounting awkwardly because of the hands bound behind his back. The other man, burly and with a sandy beard, was Si Ukase. He gave Lassiter a final jab with his rifle.

As Lasssiter settled in the saddle, Farrell aimed a loop of his catch rope at Lassiter. “I'll just drop this over your head to make sure you behave.”

Once Farrell got him to wherever he intended, a sixth sense told Lassiter, it would all be over. As the noose sailed expertly, Lassiter suddenly ducked. He yelled at the top of his voice and at the same time slammed bootheels into the black flanks of his horse. The sound of Lassiter's explosive voice and the sudden jab of bootheels sent the black horse into an instant hard run.

Lassiter, bent low in the saddle, saw the noose sail harmlessly past his head as the horse bolted. Strength of knees hugging the horse's barrel compensated for the absence of hands to help hold him in the saddle. He was bent over so far that at each lunge of the speeding horse, he was punched in the stomach by the saddlehorn. His horse went pounding between a cottage and a fair sized barn.

“Won't do you a damn bit of good!” Farrell was shouting. This was followed by a gunshot deliberately wide of the mark. A bullet slammed into the barn wall. “Get him!” Farrell yelled at Ukase and Brimmer.

And they appeared suddenly out of the dust on two fast horses, coming in from an angle. Ukase was the nearer and with his sandy beard blowing in the wind, reached out for Lassiter. But Lassiter rammed him in the side with the crown of his head. A surprised yell broke from Ukase. He sailed from the saddle and into a large clump of weeds. He seemed to bounce.

The second man, taller and thinned down, with a flop-brimmed hat, snatched at Lassiter's reins, which were loosely tied at the saddlehorn. The shoulder of his big roan crashed into Lassiter's mount, causing it to stumble. But Brimmer, a hard grin frozen on his lips, failed to relinquish his hold on Lassiter's reins. Despite the two horses bumping into each other and swerving along a narrow alley, Lassiter managed to keep his seat.

But in the flash of an eye wink, Lassiter quit his saddle. Bootheels slammed into the alley hardpan with such an impact he felt it up his spine. Momentum sent him stumbling to one knee. Pain flashed up his thigh. He reached his feet as Farrell yelled an order at Brimmer.

But Lassiter was dancing around the rump of Farrell's plunging horse. He took off at full speed, skirted a shed, and started across a vacant lot, running awkwardly because of his bound wrists.

Momentarily alone, he looked desperately for something he could use to cut the ropes on his wrists and arms. All he saw was the shiny upper half of a shattered bottle lying in a weed patch. But that would take too long and time he didn't have. As he ran, something prickly slapped one cheek. The familiar scratch of hemp. He heard a horse behind him as a noose settled over his shoulders. It slid down his arms and then was yanked tight. It jerked him backwards, so that he slammed into the ground on his shoulder blades.