A Grave for Lassiter (20 page)

Pandemonium rocked the building. Mules in a nearby corral brayed in unison.

“Now,” Lassiter told himself. Now he had to gamble.

Lassiter spun suddenly, his back to Blackshear as he sensed rather than heard Jody Marsh closing in behind him. The swell of raw voices in the warehouse seemed to rattle the walls. Marsh had his right fist drawn far back, ready to slam it into Lassiter's rib cage with all the force of a hurled stone.

But Lassiter moved so quickly, it caught the man off balance. Before Marsh could make a correction, Lassiter had spun out of the range of Blackshear's deadly fist. And it occurred to Lassiter suddenly it was he dealing out the punishment now, the two dancing bears giving ground.

At that moment Marsh's jaw was fully exposed. The startled look on his face turned blank as Lassiter found the range of that shelf of bone and solid flesh. Lassiter's heels came up from the floor as he swung with every ounce of strength remaining in his body. Marsh's eyes crossed. His head bobbled like a ball on a string as he crashed face down to the floor. Before Lassiter could twist around to confront the remaining menace, Blackshear grabbed him from behind.

“I'll finish you off, you son of a bitch!” Blackshear cried.

With another great surge of strength, Lassiter rammed backward with his right elbow into the pit of Blackshear's stomach. It produced a noise like escaping steam.

As Blackshear bent over from the blow, Lassiter broke the man's hold. Blackshear was staggering, hunched over as he gasped for breath. Lassiter didn't wait, but stepped in and threw a solid right to the cheekbone. Skin split as if cleaved with an ax blade. Then he smashed the lips for a second time, punishing the nose until it bled like a fountain.

“Ain't no fair,” Blackshear blurted and went down while searching for Farrell's face in the wildly cheering crowd. “He's gotta wait till Marsh gits on his feet. . . .”

Somehow the big man staggered to his feet and met Lassiter's onslaught to jaw and midsection. Lassiter's howl of laughter added to Blackshear's inane protest, mingled with the fresh outburst from the crowd that roared through the building like a tornado. This time when Blackshear dropped, he lay a few feet from the unconscious Marsh. Men were pounding one another on the back, yelling, grinning.

The little man who had told Lassiter earlier that he had bet on him, was holding aloft a sack of money. No one could hear the jingle of coins because of the noise.

In the press of bodies the water bottle that once had been passed to Lassiter was tipped over. Water belched from the mouth. Lassiter snatched it, tipped back his head and took a long drink. Never had anything tasted as good. He shook his head to try and drive away the fuzziness. Sweat spun into the sunlight from his damp hair.

Shanagan thrust his beefy face close to Lassiter's.

Lassiter stared at him.

In the embarrasing moment, Shanagan said, “Free whiskey at my place for you, Lassiter. For as long as you want it.”

Without replying, Lassiter thrust his way through the screaming men. Some touched his arms, his shoulders. “Great fight, Lassiter . . . greatest I ever seen . . .” sang at him from all quarters.

He saw Farrell standing with a look of disbelief on his face. Lassiter said, “I'll never forget your hand in this.” Farrell slid away into the crowd.

Lassiter still breathed hard and every muscle in his body seemed as if it had been put to the supreme test. It hurt to stand up straight and he knew he had a face that would frighten small children.

Lassiter was delayed by men wanting to congratulate him. At last he was able to push his way outside. The pandemonium followed him. Somehow he found his horse where it had been tied to a rack outside the warehouse.

Numbly he got into the saddle. The crowd milled around the horse, shouting Lassiter's name.

He saw Farrell's big bay horse where it had been left at the rack, nervously twitching its tail because of the press of bodies.

Just because the horse was nearby didn't necessarily mean that Farrell had stayed at the warehouse. He might have walked to his house in anger and frustration, Lassiter told himself, probably kicking savagely at every stone in his path.

A hard smile touched Lassiter's swollen lips as he pictured the possibility of finishing it all on this eventful day. To hell with the fact that his mind was blurred, that his right hand was in no shape for gunspeed. “Get it over with!” kept hammering through his head.

Some of the men started to follow him, but he twisted in the saddle, shouting, “I don't want company!”

Most of the crowd turned back, but some didn't. The former knew he was edgy and they wanted to avoid trouble. Besides, there was drinking to do at Shanagan's, along with discussion of Bluegate's historic day.

Chapter Twenty

As Lassiter turned his horse away from the mob, he heard a woman frantically calling his name. It sounded vaguely like Roma, but looking around in his benumbed state he saw only a wall of exuberant male faces.

An older man with a downsweep of gray moustache drew his attention. The man expressed the majority opinion. “A fella your size whippin' two big men . . . ain't never been done before. You won me a little money, Lassiter. Won't never forget it.”

Lassiter nodded his head. Other voices said, “I'm for you, Lassiter . . . Me, too . . . And me . . .”

He was a block away when he saw something coming across a vacant lot, green with spring weeds. Because his vision was slightly distorted, he had to squint with his good eye, his head back. It was female, he could tell, because of the long hair and the swaying hips when she walked. And she had pale hair and was holding a long rip in her shirt with one hand. Every few feet she would look back over her shoulder.

And then she saw Lassiter. A hand flew to her mouth and the eyes widened either in surprise or revulsion, he couldn't tell which. One thing he did know, it was Melody and her shirt was torn and she seemed frightened.

“Lassiter!” she cried and started to run toward him. He closed the distance between them. The move of dismounting in a hurry brought a flurry of pain. “Melody, what happened?”

She put her forehead against his chest and began to cry. His shirt was gone and his chest, smeared with blood, was now dampened by her tears.

“How'd you free your hands?” he asked, remembering she had been tied.

“I . . . I tricked Vance. I . . . I promised him . . .” Her face reddened with embarrassment, but she plunged on. “He was so anxious, he cut me loose . . .” She drew a deep breath. “When his back was turned, I hit him with a bookend.”

“I hope you killed the son of a bitch!”

“Oh, don't say that. Even about Vance . . .”

“Why the hell didn't he stay away, instead of coming back to foul up your life . . . ?”

“I'm through with him, Lassiter.” Her jaw was set in a firm line, the wet eyes bright with anger. “When he told me what Farrell had planned for you, I just couldn't believe it.”

“Let's go see him.” He gave her a hand up behind him on the black horse. “I've got some personal business to settle with him. I'll start the hunt for him at Farrell's.”

“But you're in no shape, Lassiter. You have no idea how awful you look. Your hands are swollen and your poor face . . .” She shuddered. “Please don't go to Farrell's.”

“Need my guns.”

“Dad Hornbeck will loan you his.”

“No.”

“Farrell might be there.”

He jerked a thumb at the crowd that had disobeyed his request not to follow him and were exuberantly trailing along. “Those boys won't let Farrell pull any fancy stunts. I'll meet him face up . . .”

“Oh,
Lassiter
. . .”

He could feel her tears against his bare back.

Farrell's front door was ajar. Lassiter dismounted, teeth clenched with the pain. He managed to climb the veranda steps.

“Vance!” he called from the veranda. “Farrell?”

There was no sound from the big house.

Melody, at the foot of the veranda steps, had both fists at her mouth. Then as Lassiter started for the door, she ran up the steps to be at his side.

“Get away,” he warned. “There may be trouble.”

“I intend to share that trouble . . . with you.” She was defiant. “And don't try to stop me.”

A small smile flickered across his misshapen mouth. “Stay out here.”

Already the sun had changed so that the parlor was mostly in shadow. Ropes that had bound Melody lay over the arm of the sofa. The only sound was a scrape of bootheels when he shifted his feet. It took him a moment to realize, in his foggy state, that he had produced the sound himself.

As he looked numbly around the ornate furnishings, the heavy Spanish furniture, several oil paintings, for the first time in his life he had to restrain a savage impulse to smash everything in sight.

He got his weapons from the mantel where Farrell had placed them. Somehow he buckled on his gunbelt, even though his knuckles were so swollen he could barely move them.

He reached up and pulled down his belt with the silver buckle. He handed it to Melody, who had followed him inside. “Take care of it,” he said thickly.

As time passed it had come to him that despite the urge to settle everything here and now, he was in no condition even to face up to Vanderson. Let alone Kane Farrell. At long last his mind was clearing so that he could accept reality.

By the time they were five miles out of Bluegate, riding double, they changed positions. Melody rode in the saddle and Lassiter straddled the horse's rump. He clung to her, a bruised cheek resting on her shoulder. At times he dozed.

They were in that position when entering Aspen Creek. Word quickly spread when Lassiter's swollen features were seen. A crowd gathered.

Oliver and Hornbeck helped Lassiter from the back of the horse and led him limping into the office. Melody insisted he take the bed, but he refused. He'd sleep on the floor because she insisted on being within call should he need her during the night.

It took a combination of arnica plus laudanum to smooth out the world for Lassiter. Pain was minimized by the opium derivative and his cleansed wounds no longer throbbed as strongly as before.

Bert Olvier got a zinc tub from the back porch and Melody heated pan after pan of water on the stove. So as not to be embarassed by his nudity, she retired to the bedroom.

The warm water and suds was so relaxing he almost fell asleep in the tub. Melody had loaned him a jar of her French soap.

“I'll smell like a Paris whore,” Lassiter told Oliver with a wink.

Oliver and Hornbeck straddled chairs. “Farrell's got to be trimmed down to size,” Hornbeck said with a wag of his graying head. “This time he's gone too damned far.”

Oliver agreed. “That stunt he pulled on you today is worse'n anything he's done so far. An'that's been plenty. Usin' his cooked cards to trim old man Borodenker outa the Twin Horn ranch. Not to mention the five thousand he euchered me out of.” Oliver swore.

“You don't know the half of what he's done,” Lassiter said. It hurt him to speak because of the lacerated lips.

When he was dressed and Oliver and Hornbeck had dragged the tub outside and emptied it in the yard, Melody came to stand in the doorway with Lassiter. “I want you to do something for me,” she said, including them all.

“Name it,” Hornbeck said, and Oliver nodded.

“If my husband even tries to get near this building, run him off.”

“You're through with him, I hope,” Hornbeck said.

“Definitely. I'm divorcing him. And then . . .” Turning, she looked up into Lassiter's battered features with a smile.

He was instantly on his guard. Was she considering a switch of affections from her no-account husband to him? Not that he thought he was much of a catch for one so young. But maybe she thought so. There was no denying a special look in her gray eyes since he had survived Farrell's double trap at the warehouse. And he remembered snatches of whispered words on the long ride out from town.

But it was time he moved along, he well knew. Already he had spent over six months in the interests of Northguard, including his long convalescence. It was time that Herm Falconer put away the bottle and got his bootheels anchored on Mother Earth. Herm wasn't the first man in history to have lost a leg.

He considered sending Bert Oliver down to Rimrock in a wagon to bring Herm back. Providing the man would come. There was always a chance Herm would get his back bowed and refuse to stir. Both he and his late brother Josh were noted for their mule blood. Despite their stubbornness, both men were likeable and Lassiter had been drawn to them for some years. Now all he wanted was to end the threat of Kane Farrell so that Melody could operate her freight line without fear. There was no denying that there were hazards enough, the natural kind, in trying to make such a venture pay off. Heavy snows and avalanches and wrecked wagons and mule teams stricken with one ailment or another. Having someone like Farrell adding to her troubles made it that much more difficult to achieve success.

No, he'd get things settled up, one way or another, then head out. Herm could take over and send him the money he had invested in the company, whenever he got his hands on some. And if he never got paid back, what of it? To Lassiter, all he cared about was to put a hand in his pocket and feel enough gold coins to get him through a few more days. He had no desire for riches, to be the biggest cowman on the range or the most prosperous merchant in a frontier town. He remembered his own father, always striving, scheming. And when he died his estate consisted of a horse and a new pair of boots. And even the boots were a size too small for Lassiter's feet.

Wherever he moved about the West he made friends. Most friendships lasting, as with the Falconer brothers. He'd known them well over ten years and there was never any hesitation to offer assistance if one of them was in trouble. And they would do likewise. Now Josh was gone, all because he had gone soft in the head and traded his life for a softly scented body and a dazzling smile, so everyone said. And even behind Josh's demise was the shadow of Farrell. It was Farrell's child Josh's wife had been carrying. And that flung in his face by the vindictive woman was what had beaten Josh to his knees, as if by a leaden whip.