A Grave for Lassiter (4 page)

Vanderson, still screaming, went pounding out of sight around the bend in the tunnel.

Lassiter tried again for Holzer, but Kiley lunged in front and took the bullet. It sliced through the web of flesh between the thumb and forefinger of the left hand. As Kiley went to his knees, Lassiter dashed around the bend in the tunnel. Vanderson was crouched, babbling again about the pair intending to kill them.

“Here's where we make a stand, for chrissakes . . .”

But the panicked Vanderson started at a wild run deeper into the shadowed tunnel.

“Watch out for holes!” Lassiter yelled, remembering places where Josh had dug in the floor, hoping to locate the elusive vein of silver. If Vanderson fell into one of those, he could break his neck. Lassiter started to turn to run after him.

But Kiley, yelling in pain and rage, came charging around the bend in the tunnel. He crashed into Lassiter where detritus on the floor made footing precarious. Both men fell. The force of the collision jarred Lassiter's gun from his hand. As Kiley started to aim his .45, Lassiter kneed him and twisted the gun from Kiley's grasp. Before Lassiter could get a firm grip on the weapon, Kiley smashed him in the face. The weapon clattered to the rocky floor.

Lassiter felt his head jerk back. His teeth snapped and blood spurted from a torn lip. He spun back against the tunnel wall as Holzer yelled for Kiley to get out of the way so he could get in a shot. But Kiley was like a maddened bull, intent on killing with bare hands. Kiley moved in so close that Lassiter was slammed against the wall. Stones began to fall from the pressure of Lassiter's shoulders. Above it all he could still hear the diminishing pound of Vanderson's boots, his screams of panic.

Watching his chance, Lassiter slammed a fist into Kiley's stomach with such force that it doubled the big man up. For a moment Lassiter used him as a shield against a raging Holzer, who was trying to get in a shot. Throwing Kiley aside, Lassiter snatched up his gun from the floor, rolling aside as Holzer fired. But the bullet screamed off the wall. Rock chips stung Lassiter's neck.

Lunging to his feet, Lassiter was around another bend in the tunnel, sprinting after Vanderson. He could see him now, far ahead in faint daylight, poised at the edge of one of the deep holes. He was gingerly moving along an edge of floor that had been left for a pathway.

When Vanderson started running again, Lassiter yelled a warning. “There's another hole up ahead. Deeper!”

But Vanderson, in his terror, didn't seem to hear him. He was at a hard run, the slam of boots against the stone floor magnified by the narrowing tunnel.

Lassiter knew he had to make a choice, either keep charging after Herm's demoralized stepson or make a stand against Holzer and Kiley. He could hear the booming sound made by their boots as they neared the new bend on the tunnel.

Just as Lassiter started to turn, something crashed into his back. At first, as he was falling, he thought he had been struck by a slab of rock dislodged by concussion because of the gunfire.

But a split second later he heard the roar of a weapon. Then he was lying on his stomach, unable to move. The dull, grinding pain in his back did not abate with the clenching of his teeth. Somehow he lifted his head. The tunnel seemed to be swinging from side to side before his eyes.

Chapter Four

Through a film of pain, Lassiter heard a scrape of boots.

Holzer said, “Got the son of a bitch, by gad. Keep your gun on him, Ed, in case he's got a twitch of life left in him. I want that belt.”

“My gun's under a pile of rocks that fell off the ceiling. . . .”

“Take mine.”

Lassiter felt himself turned over on his back. His limbs flopped like coils of rope. Despite almost unbearable pain, no sound broke from his half-open mouth, stained with blood from the smashed lip. His eyes were closed.

“He sure as hell looks dead to me,” said Kiley, peering down. There was a sudden grinding of stone against stone. “More of them damn rocks fallin'!” Kiley cried in alarm. Something thudded against the mine floor, shaking it. Kiley gave another cry. “I'm gettin' outa here!” He ran.

Holzer quickly reached under Lassiter's gunbelt to the belt that held up the canvas pants. Holzer unbuckled it, drew it slithering out of the pants loops.

Through a forest of dark lashes, a numbed Lassiter watched Holzer slip the new belt through the loops of his pants. He had taken off his gunrig and now buckled it back on. He drew his gun, cocked it and aimed at Lassiter's head.

Lassiter lay close enough to touch Holzer's right boot. Somehow in the moment of peril he felt a reserve of strength. Like a darting snake his hand shot out. Fingers gripped Holzer by an ankle. With all his remaining strength, Lassiter gave a hard pull. It wasn't enough to topple him, only throw him off balance so that he fired into the mine ceiling instead of Lassiter's skull.

Instantly this was followed by an intensified grinding of rock on rock. Slabs of granite worked loose and came crashing down. One landed inches from Lassiter's head.

Dazedly he got to his knees as the ground shook and a great roaring tortured his eardrums. A haze of dust as thick as river fog churned up as more rocks began to fall. Visibility was restricted because of the choking dust. He could no longer see Holzer nor hear him, but he located his own .44.

Somehow he staggered toward the rear of the mine that he knew had an opening at the far end. More rocks tumbled from the ceiling. The ground shook even harder underfoot. As he had predicted, the concussion of gunfire had caused the unstable ceiling to start giving way. Sound waves had triggered a partial collapse of the tunnel. How long before it became complete?

The possibility jarred through his pain. Fortunately, so far he had been able to evade the falling rock. But how much longer would his luck hold?

In the distance he could barely make out faint day-light. He came to the first of the deep holes and edged around it as Vanderson had done. Damn Vance. If he had stayed put instead of running like a panicked cat they could have stood off the pair near the mine entrance. But Vanderson in his mindless flight had drawn them deeper into the tunnel.

Rock was still falling when he reached the second, deeper hole. He staggered to the edge and nearly lost his balance. Then he was groping toward the gray fog of daylight through the dust, thankful he had a way out without having to fight his way back to the entrance. He was in no condition to cope with Holzer and Kiley now. He knew that Kiley had suffered a superficial wound to the left hand but was still dangerous. Because of the churning dust, he had no idea of Holzer's condition. Thankfully the mine was an extended tunnel under a long hill.

He never did know how he stayed on his feet. His back throbbed. His whole left side was wet. Blood ran down his pants leg and into his boot. It made squishing sounds as he managed to continue his staggering run.

At last warm sun touched his face. Here was thick brush and some rusted tools, shovels and picks with broken handles.

“Vance!” He thought he was yelling, but his voice was a bare whisper. Three times he tried to reach Vanderson, but with no luck. Perhaps the man was still running in his desperation to flee danger.

No longer did Lassiter hear the thud of falling rock from the tunnel. But dust in great clouds boiled out the exit.

It took concentration to form his mouth and tongue into position for a blasting whistle. His first try was a pitiful sound that could be heard for only a few feet.

Even that slight effort drained him. He fell to his knees. The shock of striking the ground brought a new spasm of pain that beat on him like a club. A great pounding threatened to pull him under into darkness. It was as if someone held a red hot poker against the jagged flesh the bullet had torn in his back. His head was a giant throbbing pulse.

He had to get away before Holzer and Kiley realized there was an exit to the mine and came around the hill to trap him. He managed somehow to pry himself into an upright position. His legs seemed made of India rubber. Faintly now he was aware of running water and saw a creek meandering along a slot between the mine hill and the one that adjoined it. Although the sun had slid under a bank of stormy clouds, he could feel himself sweat. His body was soaked with it. Beads of light danced behind his eyes.

To come all this way through a dangerous life on the frontier and turn his back—turn it just once to go after Herm's cowardly stepson . . . Once was all it took, just a shaved second of carelessness and a lucky shot from Holzer's gun. And the result? He was at the edge of oblivion. His teeth chattered as if he stood barefoot on a glacier.

Taking a deep breath, he shaped his mouth a second time around a whistle. This time the sound was shrill, born of desperation. It blasted its way along a curve in the brushy hill and through a narrow gulch with the rush of a small creek he remembered from years back. For the first time he realized he still clutched his revolver. He fumbled it into his holster and remembered that the belt that held up his pants was missing. He stood with right hand anchored against a stunted pine to keep his knees from caving.

“Vance!” he tried again but the voice was as feeble as before.

Suddenly he was aware of something crashing through the dry brush. His hand dropped to the gun, missing the butt. He had to make a second try. Then he saw that his black horse had produced the sound in the brush. It came prancing upgrade from the gully between the hills, reins still tied to the saddlehorn.

“Good boy,” Lassiter said hoarsely and the animal came up to where he swayed unsteadily.

The black horse stood patiently while he tried to mount. His breath was rasping when he finally reached the saddle. There he slumped, head down. Although he knew it was only a little past noon, the world seemed to be darkening. He got the horse into motion.

Somehow he had to get help. He thought of the blonde Vanderson seemed so sweet on. What was her name? Melody. A strange name. Perhaps Vance Vanderson with his coward's heart would be with her. He and the girl would help him.

Desperately he tried to think where he could find the girl. Oh, yes, she ran a freight line with headquarters in Bluegate.

As he rode the horse at a walk, he wondered if Melody knew that Vance Vanderson was yellow. From the crown of his head to his big toe. He started to laugh as he pictured the handsome boyish Vanderson lowered into a vat of bright yellow and pulled up at the end of chain, dripping paint. Laughter sent a knife of pain into his body. For a moment the day seemed to darken even more. He squeezed his eyes shut in the hope of steadying himself in the saddle. When he opened them the world seemed out of shape.

His mind moved sluggishly, like an overloaded wagon being pulled up a steep grade. It dawned on him that possibly Vanderson, in fleeing, now lay under the tons of ceiling rock that Lassiter had escaped by sheer luck. He rode on and on, the horse travelling at a patient pace.

Lassiter's head bobbed at each step of the horse on the rough terrain. After a time he tried to figure out where he might be. Behind him mountain peaks were lost in a great sea of clouds. He was going away from the mountains, not toward them. And at the same time he realized he was on a road of sorts, a path paved with wheel tracks through the wilderness. But the road had to lead somewhere; to a town, a ranch or an isolated mine.

As this was sliding through his fuzzy mind, he felt himself falling. Instinctively he flung a forearm across his face. His arm took the brunt of the fall. It was a few minutes before he realized he lay with his head against the primitive road, his left leg straight out and elevated. His foot was jammed in the stirrup. When he tried to work it loose, he lacked the strength. The slight exertion brought the warmth of fresh blood from his wound.

If that horse runs, he thought, I'm a goner. How ignominous an end for Lassiter, whose early demise had been predicted for years, as shot to death in a gunfight or hanged at the end of a vigilante rope. Instead, to be dragged to death by his own horse.

Lassiter wanted to laugh at the incongruity, but he swam in pain and it was useless to try.

He still had his gun. Could he kill the horse and thus eliminate any danger of his skull disintegrating against rocks or stiff underbrush if the animal panicked for some reason and broke into a blind gallop?

No, he could never cold-bloodedly dispose of such a devoted friend. Not even to save his own life. Somehow he would survive. Someone would come along and find him.

“Easy, boy,” he heard himself say. The black ears twitched.

It was the last he remembered. The earth just seemed to float out from under, leaving him suspended in midair.

Chapter Five

Ed Kiley was still frightened after his miraculous escape from the mine. He had hung around the entrance for an hour, waiting for Holzer to emerge out of the dust. When Holzer failed to appear, he went into a narrow canyon where they had left their horses. His roan was still there, but edgy and showing the whites of its eyes. Probably the roar of falling rock next door had set it on edge. Where Holzer's horse had been tied there was only six inches of rein still tied to a stump.

“Son of a bitch!” Kiley snarled. “In such a damn hurry he didn't even take time to untie his hoss!”

Holzer had run off with the two thousand dollars Farrell had paid them, after disposing of Lassiter.

Kiley, a man more brawn than brain and given to impetuous decisions, started at a hard run for Bluegate. Every mile or so he halted long enough to take a pull at his bottle.

He half killed his mount on the pounding run back. Luckily, at this time of day he could usually find Farrell in a low-stakes poker game. The high stakes came at Dixie's Saloon after midnight.

Farrell was playing with two drummers and one of his friends, Rip Tolliver. A few hangers-on were watching the game. The cadaverous Dixie was at one end of his bar reading a newspaper. A fat bartender served customers.