A Grave for Lassiter (27 page)

Just before leaving Shanagan's this noon, Miegs, the undertaker, had come limping in, saying he had finished with his preliminary business with five corpses, one to be buried with private money, the other four with county funds. Although no names had been mentioned, Vanderson had a feeling they were a result of the bungled attack on Lassiter's wagons.

Bo Dancur had sent a message to Kane Farrell, saying it was urgent they have a talk. Dancur waited in his office. He had sent his deputy out on county business. A discussion such as the one he wanted with Farrell could be overheard by too many ears at Shanagan's.

Farrell came swinging up the walk, his face tight. Dancur knew that his latest setback, trying to jump the Northguard wagons, had gotten under his skin.

Farrell flung himself into a chair. “You said you wanted words. All right, let's have them.”

Farrell removed a cheroot from a case, bit off the end, spat it on the floor, and then lit it with a match he struck on the side of Dancur's rolltop desk. Dancur didn't comment. He put his feet up on the desk and began talking about Bluegate's future, how it was growing, ranches expanding, mines operating.

“Which adds up to exactly what?” Farrell said in a nasty voice.

“Some lady must've kicked you out of bed, the mood you're in.” Dancur grinned slightly to take off the edge, then he recalled the woman with the beaten face and regarded Farrell soberly.

“Never mind about my ladies,” Farrell snapped. “Get to the point.” Farrell glanced at a slim gold watch he'd won at poker. “I've got a game in a few minutes.”

“The point I'm making is this. Some people think there's business enough in this growing county for Farrell Freight Lines and also Northguard.”

“And that means what?”

“You jumped Northguard this morning.”

“
I
jumped Northguard.”

“Your men did. You can't deny knowing Ed Kiley and Blackshear and Marsh and the other one whose name I don't know.”

“So?”

“Cavendish and his family was coming in a wagon just after the shootin' this mornin'. Seein' them bodies layin' all over the road sent Mrs. Cavendish into a fit. It scared hell outa the kids, Cavendish says.”

“Cavendish saw a little blood in the war, for crissakes.”

“His wife didn't. Nor his kids.” Dancur took his feet off the desk and sat up straight in the swivel chair. “I want you to get along with Northguard.”

“I thought I had a sheriff who'd bark like a coyote when I pulled the string.” Farrell gave him a rough smile. “Seems that I need a new one.”

“New sherriff?”

“You heard me right.”

“Anybody in mind?”

“Rip Tolliver.”

Dancur almost laughed, then seeing the set of Farrell's features, knew the man was serious. “Tolliver's a no-good son of a bitch, and you know it, Kane.”

“He happens to be
my
no-good son of a bitch.” Farrell got to his feet. “I'll spend the money to put Rip's picture on every third tree in the county. That all you wanted to talk about today, Bo?”

“Leave Northguard be. People are beginning to complain to me. They're afraid that one day there'll be a bad shootout here in town an' some kid'll git hit. Or a woman. This ain't Dodge City or Newton or Abilene. This is Bluegate an' we're on the way to bein' a city. Which means
civilized
.”

“You're asking me to back away from Lassiter.”

“Northguard, Lassiter. Same thing.”

“That I'll never do.” Lightning danced across Farrell's green eyes. “One of these days I'm going to take me a walk across a corral full of fresh droppings. Then I figure to get Lassiter on his back. He's going to lick every square inch of my boots till they're clean of every shred of manure.”

“You'll have to kill him to do that.”

“It's what I aim to do, after he gets through licking. Good day to you, Bo.” Farrell went out. The etched glass in the door rattled when he swung it shut. Farrell strode off down the walk, trailing gray threads of cigar smoke.

Bo Dancur had a tautness in his gut. He felt helpless because he knew, as surely as he stood in his own office in Bluegate, that one day soon hell's hinges would never hold back the blast that would engulf the town.

Lineus Swallow had started out as boy and young man with a chip a yard wide riding his shoulder. It had to do with his names, first and last. There had been many broken jaws and teeth suffered by those who saw humor in Lineus . . . “what the hell kind of name is Lynn . . . ee . . . uss?” Or, “Swallow? You named after a bird or a swaller of warm hoss pizz?”

At fifteen when a man who insulted him lay dead at his feet, Lineus Swallow decided he had a talent with a gun. An old time gunfighter, T. J. Shaw, honed that talent.

For twelve years Swallow had traveled about the West, hired by those who wanted someone dead in a legal, standup gunfighting way. He never failed.

He and Farrell had done business before.

At first, Rip Tolliver was surprised and disappointed at seeing the man in Shanagan's. Swallow was short, with narrow shoulders and a waist that looked like a woman's under the binding of a corset.

“About as rugged as a boiled owl,” was the way Rip Tolliver put it. “Or a boiled swallow.”

Farrell shushed him. “For crissakes, don't make jokes about his name. He's killed for less than that.”

Tolliver lost his laughter and took another look at Swallow, who was talking to the meaty Shanagan. There was something in Swallow's pale eyes that peeled the starch out of a man's backbone, Tolliver noticed. After a few drinks, Tolliver was recovering from his big scare that morning out on the Bluegate road.

Farrell took Swallow to a table and Shanagan brought a bottle of Colonel's Choice and two glasses. Farrell nodded and Shanagan walked back behind his crowded bar. “You remember Lassiter,” Farrell said to Swallow.

“Do I remember my mother's name? Hell yes, I remember him. That time when you an' me . . .”

“Never mind about yesterdays, it's today that counts.” Farrell poured for the two of them. “Can you take him?” “Can I take him? Does ice melt in the summer?” “Don't underestimate him. I want you two facing each other. Draw your guns and may the best man win. The better man,” Farrell added with a tight smile, correcting himself.

“Yeah, I can take him.”

“I want it where everyone can see it.”

“Why?”

“If all goes well, Lassiter is going to be very disliked around here. But even so, I want him dead by a faster gun. And good riddance at long last.”

“He step on your toes?”

Farrell took a sip of whiskey. “A spy tells me that certain businessmen are getting up a petition to hand to me, listing various reasons they want me out of the county. The one man they'll rally around is Lassiter. After today, he'll be disgraced. But even so, I want him dead also. In his grave at last. A grave for Lassiter.”

“It'll cost you. No more partnerships like we had before. This time it's cash on the table.”

“How does ten thousand dollars sound?”

“I could hear you better if you said fifteen,” Swallow said, his razor cut of a mouth offering as much of a smile as he ever allowed.

Farrell didn't know whether he cared much for Swallow's brand of humor. But he did need the man, unless he himself decided to challenge Lassiter. But that he would never do. One thing his sojourn in Bluegate had taught him—you can buy a fast gun.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Lassiter's two wagons groaned and creaked behind him as they made the long ascent over the uneven road with its potholes and uncovered slabs of rock. In the past few days, Dingell and his crew had worked on the upper half of the road, dumping wheelbarrows full of dirt where the protruding rocks were higher than the roadway.

But the lower half was the way winter had left it, with deep ruts and rocks, some the size of small boxes, half-buried in the narrow dirt road.

They dipped into the creek where it crossed the road and flowed west, instead of continuing south, toward a basin at the foot of the mountains.

With a mounted Lassiter urging them on, it was all the sturdy legs of the mule teams could manage to haul the first wagon out of the water and back to the dry road. The second wagon was even heavier. Water dripped off mules and wheels as a rest was called for.

A stiffening breeze had finally blown away a buildup of clouds above the Black Arrow Mine. Even at this altitude, where the air was crisp, Lassiter noticed that the mules were soaked in sweat, with froth at their muzzles.

When they were on the slow crawl again and Lassiter's gaze fell on the first wagon, where only one man was seated instead of two, he could see Kane Farrell in his mind's eye, with his superior smile. One more score to settle, he thought with a sudden flare of anger. Included in the burgeoning rage was Roma with her swollen face. He visualized stripping the hide off Farrell's bare back with a horse whip or calling him into the street and gunning him down. The latter part of it only if his luck held. But the moment the grim possibility started to lodge in his consciousness, he kicked it out. In a standup gunfight of course he'd triumph over Farrell. No doubt about it. Confidence had brought him through similar trials in the past and would not desert him now.

“Not much farther, Bert!” Lassiter sang out to Oliver and the lank southerner nodded his head.

Within minutes they ground up to the platform that had been lengthened since Lassiter's last visit, to accommodate two wagons at a time instead of one. They came to a halt, the mules with heads down, winded after the steep climb.

Rocks were wedged under the back wheels of the rear wagon, which rested on the last three feet of level ground before the road dropped precipitiously.

Dingell came out of the mine, wiped his hands on canvas pants and offered one of them for Lassiter to shake. “Figured you might git here before noon,” he said with a smile.

When Lassiter told him about the attack that had delayed them, the mine owner's face tightened.

“Thank God it wasn't any worse,” Dingell said fervently. “You better spend the night up here an' rest up. Plenty of room to spread your blankets.”

Lassiter shook his head. “Want to get down to Bluegate before dark. Got business to tend to.”

Dingell looked up into the grim face. “Farrell, you mean?”

But Lassiter stood staring at Bluegate below and didn't reply.

Dingell said, “I'll set my boys to unloading the first wagon. You fellas deserve a drink an' a chance to catch your breath.”

Lassiter agreed. But first there were the teams to unhitch. They were driven to the creek, on the far side of the road, where it gushed down from springs at a higher elevation. Then grain was poured into the long canvas troughs so the weary animals could be fed.

By then the first wagon was half empty of steel rails and ore cars. Eventually they would have to unload the heavier second wagon, also carrying ore cars and rails but with the added weight of the big copper boiler.

“While you were gone,” Dingell said over whiskey, “some of us in business here got together and made a list of things Farrell has done in these past few months. All of them bad.”

“If you run out of ammunition,” Lassiter said wryly, “I can supply plenty.” Dingell nodded in appreciation. However, Lassiter intended to get the matter settled before the sun went down. He didn't tell Dingell, nor his men.

Dingell talked about a petition to present to Farrell, but Lassiter said they might as well forget it. “He'll only laugh at you,” Lassiter put in.

“But if enough responsible citizens are behind it . . .”

“He'll still laugh. I'm sorry, but I know the hombre.” Lassiter's lips whitened. “Either laugh or he'll bring in gunhands to cut you down, one by one.”

Dingell seemed startled. “I thought he had a rep himself as a gunfighter. Or is he yellow at heart?”

“Never a coward, I guarantee that. But he's just a little more cautious these days. If it comes right down to it, he can still handle a gun. I'll bet on that. He earned his rep the hard way and he's not about to turn his back on it if he should draw a bad hand.”

“I understand he's already sent for a gunhand,” Dingell said, after taking a sip of the whiskey.

Lassiter leaned forward so that his dark face was in shadow. He was straddling a chair. Bert Oliver and the other two men were seated on a bench. From the platform came the clank of steel rails being stacked.

“This gunhand have a name?” Lassiter asked softly. “Lineus Swallow. I saw him in Shanagan's this morning. Not much to look at, to tell the truth.”

“Lin Swallow. Well, well.”

“You know him?” Dingell asked narrowly.

“Our trails have crossed. He worked with Farrell down south on a cattle swindle. They tried to get the last dollar out of a young widow. But they didn't quite make it.”

“From the look in your eye,” Dingell said, “I've got a hunch you had something to do with their failure to bilk the widow.”

“Farrell and I have tangled before coming to Bluegate.”

“Just be careful of him. And of this Swallow.”

“Yeah, that's good advice. To be careful.” Lassiter looked up at the higher peaks wreathed in clouds. His smile was hard. “Seems this isn't a year for being careful. It's a year for calling a man and getting it over with. Which I intend to do.” He didn't voice it, however.

Sipping Dingell's good whiskey eased the raw weariness of Lassiter's muscles. The gunfight on the Bluegate road that morning had been fury in a capsule. Everything had happened so fast there had not been time to even think. Thank God his instincts were still good or they might all be dead. He had heard the sudden but faint throb of hoofbeats. Something twitched in his brain so that they were audible even above the patient plod of mule hooves, the creak and groan of the two heavily loaded wagons. He had looked to the left into a thick stand of trees and had seen the horsemen. Only split seconds before the firing started. But it was enough to give him an edge.