A Grave for Lassiter (22 page)

“Keep your eye open for him, Dad,” Lassiter had told the old man. “If he gives you trouble, shoot him.”

He knew how persuasive Vanderson could be with women. Melody might weaken under pressure. He really didn't know her all that well.

While Lassiter was leading his wagons north to Montclair, Vance Vanderson finally summoned nerve enough to try to see Melody. Watching for his chance, he saw her leave the office and start in the direction of the Aspen City store. She did make a fetching picture in the bright morning, wearing a brown dress, her hair done up to make her look regal. Just seeing her at a distance put an ache in him.

He hurried ahead through some pines and when she neared the store, he stepped into plain sight.

She came to an abrupt halt, her face losing color. “Vance,” she said, anger tightening her voice.

“Honey, let me explain about the other day . . .”

“Keep away from me, Vance. I mean it!”

“It was all a damned mistake and if you'll just give me five minutes, I can explain everything . . .”

Something jabbed him in the spine. Without turning his head, he knew it was a gun barrel. He looked over his shoulder. Dad Hornbeck stood at his back, the wrinkled face taut with anger. He jabbed again with the rifle so hard this time that Vanderson took a few stumbling steps forward.

“Get outa here, Vanderson,” the old man ordered. “You come around here again an' it's where you'll end up in a grave.”

“Listen, Melody, tell him to back away, that I'm your husband and have the law on my side . . .” Vanderson was pleading because the old man seemed nervous enough to actually pull the trigger.

“You heard him, Vance, get out!” she demanded. “You know Lassiter's not here. Otherwise you wouldn't have tried this.”

Although Vanderson argued and threatened, there was Melody with her blazing eyes and the old man with the rifle. It came to him like a bucket of cold water that his charm was going to fail him this time.

He tried once more, however, removing his hat so she could see the bandage on his head. “Where you hit me,” he accused. “Seems to me you owe me some consideration . . .”

Melody's laughter cut like a knife. She stepped around him and continued her walk to the store.

Some men had come out of the saloon to stand at Hornbeck's side. They glared at Vanderson. At last he knew it was too risky to remain in Aspen City, so he mounted his horse and rode out.

It was only shortly past noon when he reached Farrell's house in Bluegate. Farrell answered his knock, the green eyes boring into Vanderson's face.

“What the hell do you want?” Farrell demanded.

“First time I've felt like myself. I . . . I've been in agony. She tried to kill me and bashed my head . . .”

Farrell snorted in disgust. “Blanche said you probably got tricked by the oldest promise in history. Your wife's promise to let you go to bed with her.”

The truth of it colored Vanderson's face. He removed his hat and bent over so Farrell could see the bandage. “Doc said it's a wonder she didn't beat my brains out.”

“If you have any to beat out, which I doubt.”

It was then that Vanderson became aware of the stunning dark-haired female who had come gliding into the parlor and now stood some distance away, watching them. Her black hair was slicked back to give the silver hoops at her earlobes more prominence. She wore a ruffled white blouse and a dark skirt with a wide yellow belt.

A real beauty, Vanderson saw at a glance.

Farrell noticed the direction of his glance. “As you can see, I'm busy.”

“How I envy you being busy with that,” Vanderson said under his breath, hoping to please Farrell.

“Be back in a minute, Roma,” Farrell called, then he pushed Vanderson down the veranda steps and halted beside the man's buckskin horse. “Next time I give you a job to do, can you follow orders?”

Vanderson gave a tremulous smile, so great was his relief not to be completely shunned by Farrell. “Of course I can . . .”

“The new job I'm offering you is simple enough. Kill Lassiter.”

Farrell had spoken so softly that Vanderson hadn't heard it at first. But then it sank in quickly like a knife blade slipped into the gut. “K . . . k . . . kill Lassiter?” he said in a shocked voice.

“You're the man for the job. I'll pay five thousand dollars.”

Vanderson had to catch his breath. “Five thousand
dollars?
”

“I knew you'd be impressed.” Farrell smiled benevolently, then outlined his proposition in more detail. Vanderson had no stomach for trying to face Lassiter in a gunfight, a fact he sensed Farrell shared.

“Lie in wait with a rifle,” Farrell said softly, after a glance at the big house behind him. “Catch him when his back is turned. When I know he's dead, you'll get the money.”

Farrell offered his hand to seal the deal. Vanderson seemed satisfied. Five thousand dollars would give him a fresh start. To hell with Melody and her freight line. Farrell would soon grind her under anyway.

When Vanderson had ridden off, Farrell knew he had set a ball rolling today. Either way he would be a winner. If Vanderson did the job, then well and good. Farrell would be rid of his old enemy once and for all.

On the other hand, should Lassiter kill Vanderson in the exchange, which was certainly a possibility, then Farrell intended to use every bit of influence at his command to see that Lassiter ended up on the gallows for murder.

Chapter Twenty-three

Because his freight outfit moved at a much slower pace than a rider, Lassiter missed Vanderson both times that morning. Once when he was heading for Aspen City and again on the return to Bluegate. But mainly it was because the wagons had to keep to the road, while a horseman could cut across open country and save several miles.

Those who saw Lassiter enter town at the head of his string of wagons that mid-morning, were surprised. They had expected he would be in bed from the effects of the savage beating he had suffered at the warehouse.

Those who saw the brutalized body, the ravaged face right after the fight would have bet that he was stumbling along his final trail. Bets were laid in Shanagan's as to whether or not he would survive. Money appeared on the bartop, most of it negative, that Lassiter wouldn't be around at the end of the month. But he was, now stepping into the saloon on his way north with twelve freight wagons and loose mules as replacements for the teams.

A silence spread over the big barroom as Lassiter stood near the swinging doors, looking the customers over. Wounds on his face were healing and there was no longer a swelling at one eye, only a faint purple tinge to the skin. And he stood upright, not hunched as if in pain.

A few men ventured nods.

Shanagan, who had been writing figures in a ledger at the bar, looked up when there was a sudden cessation of talk. For a moment worry was stamped on the meaty face, then a tight smile slid across the mouth. He set out a bottle and glass.

“Drink all you want, Lassiter,” Shanagan said after clearing his throat. “It's on the house.”

Lassiter poured himself a drink and laid down a coin. He flicked his gaze over the dozen or so customers as the silence continued. He drank his whiskey, then spoke to Shanagan.

“Farrell in town?”

“Out at the ranch,” Shanagan answered nervously. “Said he's gonna stay till the end of the week.”

“Maybe,” Lassiter grunted. He looked Shanagan in the eye and nodded at the coin he had laid on the bar. “I've got some change coming.”

“But I told you, it's on the house . . .” Something sparked in Lassiter's cold blue eyes. Shanagan hurriedly gave him his change. Lassiter left by the front door.

Lassiter left his men and wagons on the main street near the mercantile and rode up to the stable that Farrell had stolen from Melody. There he received the same answer concerning Farrell as Shanagan had given. It was the same at the warehouse. At both places he was regarded with awe. It was almost as if this time he had really stepped from his grave and it was a ghost they were seeing.

If they had ever seen a man beaten half to death, it was Lassiter. Yet here he was a few days later, acting as if he'd suffered no more than a few bee stings.

He rode on up to Farrell's house where the only one around seemed to be Sam Dunsten, formerly a swamper at the saloon when it was known as Dixie's. Hunched and spindly legged, with the ends of gray hair shooting out from beneath an old hat, he was sweeping off the veranda. He stood frozen as Lassiter came riding up.

As with others encountered that day, the look on Lassiter's face caused him to lose color. Lassiter asked his question and received the same answer. Farrell was out at his Twin Horn ranch.

“Who's in the house?” Lassiter asked.

Dunsten seemed embarrassed. “Only a lady.”

“Nobody else? No Farrell?”

“He left for the ranch early on this mawnin', like I said.”

“I've got a message for Farrell. You get word to him that I said to stop playing games behind a woman's skirts, as he tried to do with Mrs. Vanderson. If he's got the guts, let him face up to me. He can name the time and place.”

“Jeez, I dunno if'n I can remember all that.”

Lassiter was about to turn away when Dunsten uttered a sob of terror and flung himself face down on the veranda flooring. Dust rose as the thin old body struck the planks.

But already Lassiter was ramming in the spurs. A gun crashed as the black horse spun away from the veranda at a driving run and pounded toward a corner of the house. A man crouched there, gripping a rifle, a wisp of smoke trailed from the muzzle. He seemed frozen with fear as Lassiter bore down. His face was ashen.

“Lassiter!”
The name was a strangled sob from the throat of Vance Vanderson. “I . . . I figured you were a robber about to harm the old man . . .” He let the rifle fall. His mouth jerked in terror as Lassiter struck the ground in a running dismount, .44 in hand, the hammer eared back.

Seeing the younger man paralyzed with fear, Lassiter holstered the weapon. With a look of disgust, he snatched up the fallen rifle, looked around until spotting a slab of granite projecting from the ground some two feet or so. He stalked over, beat the rifle on the rock until the stock was shattered, then he threw it into some pines adjoining the house.

“You miserable bastard,” Lassiter said through his teeth as he turned back to the trembling Vanderson.

Twice he backhanded Vanderson across the face and each time his head snapped back from force of the blows. “That's for what you did to your wife.” Lassiter's lips twisted as he saw tears start to spread over the cheeks reddened from the backhands.

“Get out of Bluegate,” Lassiter said savagely. “Don't let me see you again.”

Something moved at a window curtain. Lassiter stiffened, dropped a hand to his gun. He had an impression of dark eyes at the lace curtain, but couldn't match a face to the eyes because of reflected sunlight on the window glass. Then the image vanished.

Turning back to Vanderson, he jerked the .45 from his holster, unloaded it, hurled the shells into the trees. Then he beat the gun sharply on the slab of stone, knocking off the hammer.

“Remember what I said, Vanderson.” Lassiter rode away.

From a narrow window, Roma watched Lassiter leave. She had been tempted to call out to him, but the old flame of jealousy burned too brightly for that. He had turned from her after all she had done for him. All because of that hank of golden hair, as Kane Farrell contemptuously referred to Melody Vanderson.

She was still in bed when the gunshot had awakened her. She rushed to a side window in time to see Lassiter savagely backhanding a slender younger man.

Through the window she had seen Lassiter's face and almost melted at sight of the cuts and abrasions that were not yet fully healed. An almost maternal instinct welled up in her to nurse him again, as she had during the long weeks he was recovering from the bullet wound in the back.

But when she took a second look and saw the way his mouth was twisted and the savagery in his eyes, she backed away from the window. At first, she couldn't quite believe the things Kane Farrell said about him. But now she wondered if at heart Lassiter wasn't a killer, with no regard for fellow humans, men or women.

Farrell had left the house early that morning to go out to his ranch. He wanted to get everything set before he took her there, he explained. She guessed his intention was to get rid of traces of any previous female visitors.

If he only knew his previous love life was of no interest to her. The only thing that had drawn them together was a mutual desire to bring Lassiter to his knees.

She longed for the day she'd see him groveling in the dirt. When that happened, she would hunt up her family, make her peace with her father, then marry the member of the gypsy band he had selected to be her husband.

She was tired of running, tired of being disillusioned as she had been with Lassiter. She appreciated what Doc and Rex had done for her, taken her in when she had run away, risking the wrath of her family for giving her shelter.

Now it was time to go back and resume her rightful role in life. But first there was Lassiter. As she had told Farrell sternly, she didn't want Lassiter killed, only humiliated. Forced to beg for mercy.

Farrell had smiled, stroked her cheek and said he agreed.

Chapter Twenty-four

This time the Northguard freighters made the long trip to Montclair and the return with a full load without incident. Even Ordway, the railroad rep, did not cause trouble. But he insisted on the transfer of Bitterroot cargo to the wagons be handled through a clerk. He refused to speak to Lassiter. That suited Lassiter just fine.

When he finally arrived back in Aspen City, Melody came flying out from the office to hurl herself into his arms and stand on tiptoe to plant a welcome home kiss on his lips—right in front of everybody.