As he angled across the busy street, he would probably be taken for a drifter, with his flat-crowned black hat pulled low, his faded wool shirt, canvas jacket and pants. The full beard hid most of his face. The eyes, however, were not those of a drifter. They were alert and penetrating. He neared the saloon.
A tinny piano accompanied drunken voices in a rendition of “Tenting Tonight.”
A large new sign was displayed on the saloon building: SHANAGAN’S TO REPLACE DIXIE’S. It had been owned by a Southerner who had come out of the Confederate Army with a bad arm and a dragging foot.
A familiar wash of warm air hit Lassiter when he stepped through swing doors and stood with his back to the wall. Mingled odors of beer, whisky, and tobacco smoke struck his nostrils. The smell of coal oil from the lamps floated along the ceilings.
Not seeing any familiar faces, Lassiter edged up to the long bar. “Tenting Tonight” was just concluding. Even though the war had been over for some years, enough old timers remained to reminisce and sing the old camp songs. Some were blubbering.
Lassiter found himself standing next to a lanky middle-aged man, fairly drunk and with moist eyes. “ ’Scuse me, friend,” he said, turning to Lassiter, “but when I hear them songs I remember ol’ Ned. Lost him at First Manassas.”
“A lot of men were lost,” Lassiter put in.
“Even though that’s a blue belly song, it still stirs me up,” the stranger confided. “Me, I was Reb. Reckon you can tell by my voice.”
Lassiter nodded and finally got the attention of a perspiring barkeep, who set out bottle and glass. Lassiter fluffed out his beard. He doubted if anyone would recognize him with the beard in the dim light.
The first drink of whiskey hit his stomach like a clenched fist.
Lassiter took a deep breath, then poured for the drunk who had been overcome by the wartime ballad. The man thanked him profusely, doffing his hat to reveal a few hairs plastered to a pink scalp. Bushy sideburns seemed to give width to a narrow face.
“Do you know a man named Herm Falconer?” Lassiter asked, seeking information.
“Knowed a Josh Falconer, but he up an’ died last year.”
Lassiter frowned. Hadn’t Herm put in an appearance yet? He asked about Vance Vanderson, which brought a sour look to the stranger’s long face.
“Vanderson! Good riddance, I say.”
“He dead?” Lassiter asked narrowly.
“The world ain’t that lucky. He lit out for Denver, so I hear.”
That meant Melody was running things alone. He wasn’t surprised that Vanderson would run out on her when the going got tough. Lassiter’s eyes roamed up and down the busy bar. Everyone seemed engaged in conversation. Many Saturday night red eyes were in evidence. The tinny piano, played by a fat man in a checkered vest, was thumping again.
“Northguard Freight Company still operate out of Bluegate?” Lassiter asked the former Rebel. The man was making him nervous by the way he stared in the backbar mirror. He turned to study Lassiter more closly.
“Ain’t called Northguard here in town,” the man said. “Called Farrell now.”
Lassiter’s bearded lips tightened. His eyes skipped around the big smoky room, hoping Farrell might have entered while he was talking. Then he cautioned himself to move slowly. Although he had emptied many boxes of ammunition down at El Puente, shooting at rocks with Roma looking on wasn’t the real test. It was one thing to face a row of rocks on a dirt shelf. Quite something else to face up to a man. Especially one as ruthless and tricky as Kane Farrell.
He couldn’t afford to make some damn fool play ahead of time and risk having his head blown off. Tonight at the graveyard had been close enough.
The stranger was peering into Lassiter’s eyes. Then he slapped the bartop a whack with his open hand and gave a hoot of laughter. “I knew I knowed you, by gad. I’d know them eyes anywhere, beard or not. . . .”
Lassiter felt his mouth go dry. Several men nearby were looking on, startled by the Southerner’s slap on the bartop and his strident laughter.
“Wait a minute . . .” Lassiter started to caution him.
“I’m Bert Oliver. An’you are . . .” Oliver was squinting up at Lassiter. Here the light was reasonably good, for they stood under one of the copper-sheathed overhead lamps.
“And I’m . . .” Lassiter grabbed a name out of the air. “I’m Bill Jasper.”
“Hell fire, you’re Lassiter!”
The name cracked like a whip at that end of the crowded bar. Men stood stiffly, eyes widened. “Don’t use his name on me!” Lassiter’s voice was harsh. “That renegade’s dead!”
Oliver seemed embarrassed by the reaction, the staring drinkers, the sudden stillnes. Men had started to edge away.
“I only meant that I remember seein’ this Lassiter once. Was down at the border. The sheriff there made a big to-do about givin’ him a belt with his initial on the silver buckle. You kinda reminded me of this fella Lassiter is all.” Oliver gave a nervous glance around. Some of the customers had resumed their conversations, but others still stared as if unable to make up their minds.
“That ain’t Lassiter,” said a little man in a brown suit. “I
oughta know. I buried Lassiter myself.” He winked and laughed. He belched and swayed back to the bar where he picked up a full glass of whiskey and drank from it.
When the room seemed back to normal, Oliver leaned close. “Sorry I spoke up like that,” he whispered. “Reckon I had too much whiskey in my gullet.” Then in a louder voice, “Thanks for the whiskey, Bill Jasper.”
He lurched toward the doors. Some men watched him with puzzled frowns. Others studied the bearded Lassiter.
By then Lassiter had finished his whiskey and he tossed a coin on the bar to pay for the drinks. Trying to remain calm, he saw a heavyset man with bright eyes pick up the coin. “ ’Ol Bert’s all right, but he gets kinda mixed in the head when he drinks too much,” the man commented.
“I guess we all do at times,” Lassiter said carefully.
“I’m Shanagan,” the man said, with a smile that revealed two gold incisors. “If Milo Miegs says he buried Lassiter, then that’s the final word. He’s the local undertaker.”
“Seems like it,” Lassiter responded.
Shanagan slid Lassiter’s change across the bar. “Hope you get to be a regular here . . .” Shanagan broke off. “What was your name again? Oh yeah, Jasper. Bill Jasper I recollect hearin’ you say.”
Lassiter gave the man a nod, then stepped sideways to the doors. Just in case one of the customers decided to probe deeper into his identity.
Lassiter was sitting at the counter of a small cafe, eating a bowl of beef stew, when Bert Oliver slipped onto the adjoining stool. “Made a fool outa myself in Shanagan’s,” he said in a low voice. “I. . . . I didn’t even know you was s’posed to be dead till somebody just told me up at the livery barn.”
“Forget it. I only hope I can count on you keeping your mouth shut.”
“Sure can,” Oliver assured him. “I don’t look it mebby, but I’m a good hand with a gun. In case you be needin’ one.”
“What’d they say at the livery barn?”
“Only that you got kilt in the mountains late last year. An’ that you an’ Kane Farrell never had no love for each other. You hatin’ Farrell I like.”
“How you feel about him?”
“The same as you. Hate the bastard.”
Lassiter sat where he could watch the door. The stew was tasty and filling. Oliver slurped coffee next to him.
“Guess the beard hasn’t fooled too many,” Lassiter mused. “It sure didn’t fool you.”
“I used to see you when you was segundo for the XT outfit outa Tucson. An’ then I remember you when the sheriff made his long-winded speech before giving you the belt with your initial on the silver buckle.” Oliver glanced at Lassiter’s waist. “What happened to the belt?”
Lassiter gave a short laugh. “Only the good Lord knows.”
>
Although Oliver had only been in town a few weeks, he seemed to have a good idea of the lay of the land. Oliver said that Farrell had started a freight line under his own name.
“What happened to Josh Falconer’s niece?” Lassiter probed. “Name of Melody. She was running things last I knew.”
“She moved what’s left of her outfit up to Aspen Creek.” Oliver said that Farrell had taken over not only the freight line here in town, but also the stable, warehouse, and the big house that Josh had built for his wife.
“Melody must be having a hard time,” Lassiter said above the rattle of crockery and voices of other customers.
“Everybody figures this spring she’ll be makin’ her last freight run.” Oliver cleared his throat. “You aim to do somethin’ about it?”
“I aim.”
Lassiter paid for his meal and Oliver’s coffee. Outside on the crowded walk, Lassiter ran a hand over his beard. “Wonder if the barber shop’s still open.”
Oliver nodded. It was Saturday night, Oliver pointed out.‘An’ payday at the ranches an’ mines. The boys come in once a month to git a trimmin’, them that don’t cut their own hair.” Oliver’s voice hardened. “Or trimmed at Shanagan’s.”
“So he runs crooked games.”
“Not him. But he lets Farrell sit at his tables.”
“Seems Farrell hasn’t lost his touch.”
“Seems like you know the bastard down to his toenails.”
“I’ve twisted his tail a few times.”
“I ain’t forgettin’ he euchred me outta five thousand Yankee dollars.”
Lassiter looked at the long face with the bushy sideburns. “You ever accuse him of it?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t be here talkin’ with you this night.” Lassiter agreed. “There are times for a man to keep his mouth shut, for sure,” Oliver went on. “Like I didn’t with mine tonight. Sayin’ your name right out, like a fool. Minute I seen how everybody around me was lookin’ kinda shocked-like, I knew I’d done wrong.”
“If I do need a hand, where can I get hold of you?”
Oliver said he was living at the hotel as long as his money held out. “I’m tryin’ to git a small stake so’s I can trick Farrell into a game. Next time, by gad, I’ll keep my eyes open. An’ I won’t touch one drop of whiskey.”
“The only way to play cards.”
“ ’Course that night Farrell had a little help. I heard later he paid Vanderson to slip him cards. He was setting right next to Farrell, he was, but I never paid no attention . . .”
“Vance Vanderson, you mean?”
“The slimy, no-good.”
Oliver drifted away into the shadows. Lassiter took a roundabout way to the barber shop so that he had to pass the big stables built by Josh Falconer and also the oversize warehouse. On both buildings was a sign: FARRELL FREIGHT LINES.
Farrell was up to his old tricks, trimming the innocent, such as Oliver, and fighting a defenseless young woman like Melody.
A final customer was just leaving the barber shop. The barber was about to close up. Lassiter offered him five dollars to shave off his beard, with three stipulations. He was to lock the front door, pull down the blind, and have no objection to Lassiter holding a gun on his lap.
Chapter Nine
Shanagan was relieved to learn that Farrell was home, not out at Twin Horn. It saved an eleven-mile round trip. Even so, it was quite a walk to Farrell’s house, out past the warehouse and stables. All three structures were built by Josh Falconer shortly before his marriage, so Shanagan had learned. Showing off his money for a lady’s benefit—a woman one-third his age. Those who told the story got that pitying smile on their faces, as men do who think one of their peers has made a damned fool of himself.
Josh Falconer’s married bliss hadn’t lasted long enough to spit, as one man put it.
Shanagan knew the problems that can torment a man. He’d had his own. He had been drifting since a bloody night back in Kansas when he was supposed to be in Omaha. He had sneaked home to find his wife entertaining two of the town dandies. His intention was to kill his wife as well as her suspected lover, but he hadn’t counted on a pair of them. When one of them jumped him, he killed both men with his double barreled shotgun and fled. He changed his name from Buelton to Shanagan, the name of his late aunt’s husband. For a time he barely outran the uproar over the double murder. But soon memory of it faded, as did the trail he left.
After gambling his way West, he reached Bluegate, where he recognized a fellow thief, Kane Farrell. He had watched with amusement as Farrell fleeced some of the important men of the area at cards. Only a few, like Bert Oliver, seemed to realize they had been cheated.
Shanagan was lucky. The saloon owner suffered from war wounds and wanted to get out. Shanagan bought him out, cheap. He decided to wait until an opportunity presented itself so he could declare himself Farrell’s partner. Farrell, driven by an insatiable ambition, was headed for the heights and Shanagan intended to go right along with him. And if the time ever came when there was room for only one of them at the top, he considered himself clever enough and ruthless enough to deal with that eventuality.
Farrell himself answered Shanagan’s knock on the tall oak door. He invited him into a spacious parlor with a large stone fireplace, leather sofas and chairs. “Surprised you’d leave your place on a Saturday night,” Farrell said, closing the door.
“Lassiter’s back.”
Farrell’s head came up. He had been pouring them whiskey. He spilled some. “Lassiter back? Back where?” Farrell’s voice was hoarse. A sudden sheen of moisture was at the hairline.
“Here in town. At my place tonight.”
Shanagan told how he had been behind his bar, close enough to overhear Bert Oliver accuse a bearded man of being Lassiter.
Farrell was beginning to calm down. They sat and sipped good whiskey in silence.
Finally Farrell said, “I think you’re mistaken. When Oliver gets a gut full of whiskey he doesn’t even know where he is, let alone recognize anyone.”
“You oughta know that,” Shanagan said with his glass to his lips. “The way you slickered him in my place.”
“The game was honest,” Farrell said stiffly. “Oliver’s just not much of a card player.”
“You had your friend Vance Vanderson feed you extra aces. . . .”
“That’s the same as calling me a card cheat.” Shanagan waved both hands defensively. “I’ve done plenty of it myself, Farrell. I admire the way you work. I admire your nerve.”
Farrell smoothed the waves in his dark red hair. “Why are you telling me all this?” he demanded softly.
“Because I’d like us to work together. Me keeping my ears open in the saloon. Like I did tonight.”
“Well, you’re wrong about Lassiter.”
“You’ll find out I’m right. I’ll bank on it.”
“I saw Lassiter buried. The day of his funeral my friends and I celebrated by drinking whiskey and running plenty of water onto his grave. If you know what I mean.”
“Somebody else got buried in his place, then.”
Farrell rubbed his classic jaw, then said thoughtfully, “Dutch Holzer disappeared and Kiley always claimed he ran out with the money I’d paid them for . . . Well, never mind what I paid them to do. But it’s sheer nonsense to claim Lassiter has returned from the dead.”
“I’ll bet you a hundred that I’m right.”
“I’ll take that wager.” They shook hands on it.
Suddenly there was a pound of hoofbeats in the yard, then heavy boots thundered on veranda steps. It was Pete Bromley, Farrell’s segundo; he hadn’t gotten around to hiring a foreman yet.
“Just figured you oughta know about Barney Cole. . . .”
“Calm down, for crissakes. What about him?” They stood in the doorway together.
Bromely explained that he and Cole were on their way back to the ranch. “I seen somebody lightin’ matches in the graveyard.” Bromely went on
to say that he told Cole to go and see who was lighting matches. “Barney did like I said, but this fella who said he was a Mex started shootin’. I got the hell out, not knowin’ how many friends the Mex might have with him. I waited till the moon got real strong. I went back an’ I found Barney dead.”
“So some Mex drifter shot him. Look, I have a very important appointment . . . with a lady and I . . .”
“When I got to Shanagan’s lookin’ for you, Sam the barber was there. He swears to gawd he just shaved off Lassiter’s beard. Sam recognized him, but was scared white till Lassiter left.”
Shanagan laughed. “Farrell, looks like you owe me a hundred.”
Farrell ignored him. With a stiff face, he drew Bromley aside and whispered in his ear. He finished with, “And tell the lady I’m sorry for being late. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“What then, boss?”
“Get back to the ranch. See that the boys are ready to ride at a moment’s notice. I may need them.”
When Bromley had gone, Farrell got into a buggy that had been left at the side of the house. He and Shanagan started toward the saloon, the chestnut in the shafts prancing smartly. Stars shone brightly through trees that bordered the street.
“With Lassiter’s guts,” Farrell said angrily, “he just might show up again at your place tonight.”
“I’ll be at your back, just in case.”
Farrell turned in the buggy seat, staring at Shanagan’s rugged profile in the glow of night lanterns from the stable entrance they were passing. “You do that, Shanagan.”
“Come to think of it, you don’t owe me that hundred dollars,” Shanagan said smoothly when they were nearing his saloon and could see the knots of excited men along the street and occasionally hear a repeated name. Lassiter! “Seems like we’re in this together, Farrell. An’ one partner shouldn’t owe the other.”
Farrell was getting out of the buggy and taking long-legged strides toward the saloon. “You’re a slick one, Shanagan. You moved right in without me hardly noticing.”
“Tonight gave me the chance,” Shanagan said with a tight grin.
A Grave for Lassiter Page 6