A Grave for Lassiter

by Loren Zane Grey

  When Farrell started to speak angrily, Lassiter shook his head. “Leave her alone,” he warned.

  Farrell’s height seemed to increase above the six-foot mark as he drew himself up. His sculptured chin lifted. In the deadly silence, his right hand fingers twitched only inches from the open front of his leather coat, itching to reach for a weapon. Lassiter tensed, ready for him.

  Abruptly, Farrell strode to the door. “By the way, Sheriff Dancur rode up with me today. He happened to have some business at the store here.” Then his green eyes swung to Melody. “I hope you don’t awaken some midnight and realize the awful forces you’ve unleashed by your unwillingness to accept a fair offer.”

  “Get out of here, Farrell,” Lassiter said coolly. “And don’t come back.”

  Lassiter stepped outside in case, sheriff’s presence or not, Farrell made a try for his gun. At least out here Melody would be spared the possibility of being hit by a bullet.

  But Farrell rode down the street, past the Aspen Saloon. Two men came riding out from the far side of the building. Lassiter’s lips formed a hard grin. Farrell hadn’t risked coming up here alone. He recognized Ed Kiley’s towering figure. The small and dark man he didn’t know. In a few moments, Bo Dancur came swaggering out of the store, mounted up and they all started down the steep road to Bluegate.

  Melody came to stand at Lassiter’s side. “For a minute there I almost thought you wanted me to sell,” she said, looking up at him, the sun shining on her golden hair. “I’d have given you all of the four thousand. It certainly wasn’t as much as you put into the company, but . . .”

  “I was hoping you’d show Farrell some backbone. And you did.” He smiled at her.

  Then he told about the agreement with Betancourt of the Bitterroot Mining Company.

  “How wonderful, Lassiter!” she cried, clapping her hands. “We’ll make it yet. The two of us.”

  That was when he noticed the tenderness in her eyes, the sweet smile. His face closed. In the first place, she was married, despite what had happened between them that rainy night in the mountains. Besides that, as soon as Herm was able to come to Aspen City and take over for his niece, Lassiter intended to clear out. Lately he had noticed little things Melody let slip, the way she looked at him, all since that night after he had saved her shipment at the Glory Mine. But he knew he couldn’t just ride off and leave Herm and Melody to face the ambitious Kane Farrell. No, that part of it he’d have to solve before he pulled out for new horizons.

  To handle the big load from rail’s end at Montclair to the Bitterroot Mine in the mountains would take an additional nine wagons, Lassiter estimated. He put out word that he wanted teamsters with wagons to work on a percentage. He was also hiring a crew, so went the story that was soon spread over the Bluegate Basin.

  Teamsters with one or two wagons, who had been working the short end of the stick because of the bad winter, came in with him. Some had to be sent on their way because Lassiter knew their equipment would never stand the pounding of all those rough miles.

  He wanted a crew of twenty-six men, two men to each of the twelve wagons, plus two more to take care of the extra mules. He finally got four teamsters with wagons and managed to buy five more with payment deferred until fall. On the same basis he picked up the mules needed for the long drive.

  One prerequisite for being hired on by Northguard was that each man have a rifle and revolver and ammunition. Northguard lacked the funds to supply additional arms, Lassiter explained.

  Melody went around humming under her breath, the gray eyes had a new sparkle.

  Even Dad Hornbeck noticed the change in her. “Our gal Melody looks as happy as if she’d been out all day smellin’ the wild flowers.”

  Most of the hired men had experience on freight lines. Those without experience were shown the rudiments of mule skinning. Lassiter couldn’t be too particular, men for hire were hard to come by. Word of the trouble between Northguard and Farrell made many would-be prospects back off.

  Each driver was furnished with twenty feet of rawhide attached to a two-foot hickory handle, with a buckskin popper on the end. The indispensible bull whip.

  Experts practicing in the wagon yard sent their bull whips cracking with such regularity that it sounded like a miniature cannonade. Lassiter was pleased with the wrangler and nighthawk who had been hired on, both hard-jawed men with hands scarred from years of roping.

  At first, Lassiter had leaned toward using oxen rather than mules. And Bert Oliver, who had had some experience in freighting, agreed that oxen were probably better for hauling heavy machinery, even though they were slower. One advantage was that they could live off grass alone and in this high country spring grass was plentiful. For mules, grain would have to be hauled, which meant a loss of valuable cargo space. But when it came right down to it, Lassiter wondered where he would be able to round up a hundred and fifty head of oxen, including replacements, on such short notice. So he decided it would be mules.

  After the big crew was hired, each man took turns at cooking. Oliver wondered aloud if it wasn’t a woman’s place to cook full time. But Lassiter shook his head. “She’s got other things to do, Bert. Same as the rest of us.”

  “But the good Lord put her an’ her kind on earth to take care of men folks. At least that’s what my Pa always said.”

  “Times are changing. There’s a woman up in Colorado who runs a cattle ranch. And one back in Kansas I’ve heard of who’s farming four sections of land. The only help they get is from the men they hire.”

  Oliver looked skeptical and rubbed one of his bushy sideburns. “If my Daddy could come back from the grave an’ hear this, he’d plumb drop through the floor.”

  “The way I’ve got it figured, Bert,” Lassiter said with a tight smile, “It’s your night to scrape up a meal for us.”

  They ate together and then spread their blankets in the cramped quarters. Because there wasn’t room for all of them inside, some slept in the yard under the trees.

  The evening before they were to pull out, Melody asked Lassiter to have supper with her. She had made a delicious stew and a pie of dried apples. During the meal, she talked of her girlhood in the east.

  “My uncles never liked my father, although I never understood why,” Melody said between sips of coffee. “But after he died, they seemed to mellow and forgave their sister, my mother. They would send us money, which my mother always returned. She was the unforgiving one, it seems. Although we did come out to visit Uncle Josh one time.”

  Lassiter well remembered the scrawny girl and buxom mother.

  As they were finishing the pie, Melody asked for more details about his life when he was recovering from the near-fatal wound. When he spoke of Roma, his voice softened and he sat staring at the plank wall that was splashed with lamplight.

  “Were you in love with her?” Melody probed, watching him through thick, pale lashes.

  “She was a friend. A good friend.”

  “From your voice, I think it was deeper than friendship.” A little catch in Melody’s voice caused Lassiter to turn in his chair to stare at her. The chair creaked from his weight. The wick of the single lamp was smoking slightly. He leaned over and turned it down.

  All of a sudden she seemed forlorn. He reached across the table and took her hands. “Don’t be jealous of Roma.” Then he added with a faint grin, “Maybe I’m the one who should be jealous, you with a husband . . . .”

  It was just something that had slipped out. Suddenly her gray eyes seemed filled with hope.

  “Vance will never come back,” she said, the light of joy gone from her eyes. “I’ll have to take the rather drastic step for a woman and file for divorce.” She looked at Lassiter. “And that will be the end of Mr. Vance Vanderson, so far as I’m concerned.”

  He thought it best to make no comment. Already once tonight he had put his foot in it.

  “I want to get rolling by dawn, so I better head for my blankets.”

  He go
t up as she removed her apron, threw it over a chair, and went across the room, her heels rapping on the bare floor. She opened the door to her sleeping quarters. There she stood, waiting, hands at her sides, head tilted.

  Although she presented an appealing figure, he didn’t pick up her obvious invitation.

  “If I don’t see you in the morning,” he said lightly, “say a prayer for us.”

  He walked over and thanked her for the supper, then kissed the tip of her nose. But as he started to turn away, she clutched at his arms. As her fingers tightened, one part of his mind said, “Why not?” And he actually lifted his hands to her shoulders.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said suddenly.

  “Can’t you . . . stay?”

  Pretending he hadn’t heard, he hurried to the door, gave her a wave of the hand, and stepped out into the moon-swept darkness.

  It was not quite daylight when Lassiter and the men ate breakfast. But they were ready to roll when the eastern lid of the horizon lifted just enough to let out a thick gray streak of light.

  Melody hurried from the office, tightening a shawl across her shoulders. All the men eyed her appreciatively as she came closer to the wagons.

  “Lassiter, be careful,” she said, panting from her run.

  “We’ll be back before you know it,” he said confidently.

  From the saddle of his black horse he blew her a kiss, which she threw back to him. He was reflecting on how pretty she looked in a bright yellow dress, her hair pinned up. She’d make a good wife for some man. Too bad she had allowed herself to be hoodwinked by Vanderson.

  He hadn’t slept well. His mind had been on Melody.

  And on Roma with her flashing eyes, the strong white teeth that could so playfully nip his flesh, the rounded limbs that at times were so lively.

  Cool off, Lassiter, he warned himself, then gave a short laugh as he rode to the lead wagon. “Vamonos! Let’s go!” he shouted at the men and as the wagons began creaking into motion, he added a second command, so familiar in the freighting business. “Stretch ’em out!”

  Chapter Twelve

  On the morning Lassiter left for Montclair, Vance Vanderson was at High Pass, twenty miles west. He was on his way south and intended to bypass Bluegate and most certainly Aspen City. He wanted nothing to remind him of his brief but hectic association with Melody. She had turned out to be a nosy bitch with her litany of “Where are you going? What time will you be home, or what day, rather . . . Isn’t that more money than you intended spending? . . . We’re not rich, you know . . . Did you have to get in a poker game? You know Farrell’s a cheat. You told me so yourself.”

  That last remark produced their worst quarrel, mainly because he feared it would get back to Farrell. He had been fairly drunk the night he told her about sitting next to Farrell in several games and surreptitiously slipping extra cards into his boot top.

  To have someone spread the word that Farrell was a cheat would enrage the man. No, he’d give Bluegate a wide berth. And he certainly had no wish to see his unresponsive wife.

  That was why he intended keeping to the mountains, even though it was longer, rather than chance running into her or others who might ask embarrassing questions.

  He’d stop by Rimrock and see his ailing stepfather. Recently he’d heard Herm was still there. But he had become stricken with the same disease that had taken his brother Josh. Herm couldn’t stay away from a bottle when things went wrong. Losing his leg had been a mortal blow to his pride, so the doctor had written Vance in Denver. He knew Herm would be good for a few dollars if he stopped in while passing through Rim-rock. And when Herm finally took off, which seemed inevitable, the way he was drinking, what he had left would go to his loyal stepson, Vance. Just thinking of it brought a hard smile to his lips. He certainly had more right to the estate, whatever remained, than Melody, who was only a niece.

  One thing he regretted was Herm’s investing eleven thousand dollars in the sorry freight line. Vanderson would have made much better use of the money by taking a flyer in mining stocks. In Denver he’d been caught up in the excitement of buying and selling, but lacked the necessary capital. To make a killing would take thousands, not the hundreds that seemed to be about the extent of his poke at any given time.

  He was eating breakfast in the combination saloon and general store where he’d played poker the night before. Long after midnight he was the big winner. At the start it had been a low-stakes game, but as the evening progressed the ante was gradually raised. By three in the morning he had cleaned out all the other players. Most of them were drifters or miners, plus a few cowhands who worked the mountain ranches.

  He had gone out back and locked himself in the privy and counted his money by the light of matches. His heart soared. He was over five hundred dollars to the good—his luck was changing. His handsome face was lighted by a wide grin. There’d been too many long dry months for comfort. His good luck here in High Pass left no doubt that he was going to have a prosperous year.

  As he was finishing his breakfast at the end of the bar, some men came in. They had the look of the mountains about them, bearded and roughly dressed. He thought of suggesting a game, then decided against it. There were six of them and if he was caught padding his hand from extra cards it could be disastrous. Last night a shotgun guard had been on duty, but this morning there was only a gray-haired bartender who shuffled rather than walked.

  Apparently the men had just met up with each other outside town, for they talked as if they hadn’t been together for a spell. Vanderson was just sopping up the last of his egg with a cold biscuit when he heard Melody’s name mentioned.

  Holding his breath, he listened, head cocked. According to a large man with a full red beard, Melody had hired a new crew and was said to be prospering. Kane Farrell even seemed to accept the new status, so stated the bearded man. She had bought extra wagons and seemed on the verge of obtaining some big contracts. The man mentioned that one bit of business was to haul much needed equipment to the Bitterroot Mine, one of the largest in the mountains.

  Vanderson was excited. By God, his luck was changing. Hearing Melody’s good fortune was indeed pleasing to his ears. But then in looking back, he always did have a rather warm association with Lady Luck. His luck came unexpectedly and in strange ways.

  Instead of pushing over the mountains and heading south as he intended, he went east from High Pass straight to Aspen City. He would make up for the quarrel with Melody, using his considerable experience in crushing female hearts and, if in the mood, putting them back together again. There was no reason why he shouldn’t share in his wife’s good fortune, he thought with a short laugh.

  The following day Melody was washing the dishes used in the noon meal she had shared with Dad Horn-beck, in the headquarters building. His wound was healing and these days he always carried a rifle. She knew he thought he was protecting her, something she didn’t need. She could take care of herself. But it did give the old man something to think about.

  Being around Lassiter had taught her self-reliance. She had never understood the meaning of love as she did now. There had been times in her short but turbulent marriage when she had vowed she would fall in love with her husband if it killed her.

  But Lassiter was a different story. Closing her eyes, she pictured him, tall and lean with the ink-black hair, his face darkened from exposure. And the startling blue eyes, his most arresting feature. She felt her heart lurch pleasantly.

  “Melody, my darling! I’m home!”

  She was so entranced that the male voice fairly sang through her mind, because for one glorious moment she thought it might be Lassiter, come back early for one reason or other.

  But in the next breath she realized the voice wasn’t Lassiter’s. She had been standing in a bar of warm sunlight coming through a side window, holding a tin plate she had been about to wipe and put away. Standing on the other side of the table stood Vance Vanderson, wearing the boyish smile he once told her was
guaranteed to set female hearts racing. The conceited fool, she recalled thinking at the time.

  At first she was plainly surprised to see him again. She had considered him out of her life for good. He continued to smile at her, as if he had just been down to Bluegate for the day instead of having been gone for weeks up to Denver and the Lord only knew where else.

  Her surprise was turning to anger when he skirted the table and caught her by an elbow, so that she dropped the plate. It went banging across the floor. He pulled her close and planted his lips on hers. His tongue moved inside her mouth. She was powerless to resist because he was gripping her shoulders.

  Although the kiss had left her completely chilled, he seemed impressed by his accomplishment. She thought of wiping a hand across her lips, then decided not to go that far. He did have a violent temper and could change in a flash from gentleman to demon. He had never struck her, although it had been threatened.

  “Whew!” he exclaimed. “What a welcome you gave me!”

  She stared. My God, he actually seemed to believe it.

  She backed up so he couldn’t grab her again. It was time to settle a few things, she told herself. Among them was the fact that she didn’t love him and that so far as she was concerned he could get right back in the saddle and ride out of her life, as he had done before.

  But before she could open her mouth, he was dumping gold coins among the papers on her desk. One of them rolled to the floor, which caused him to give a cheerful cry as he snatched it up. Something like a little kid who has found a bright shiny penny, she thought.

  As she watched him with a puzzled frown, he stacked the gold coins and added some silver dollars and even a ten dollar bill. They seldom saw paper money in the mountains.

  He made a dramatic gesture at the money. “There represents hours of toil, my love.”

  “You mean you worked for it?”

  “Every nickel. You seem surprised.”

  “Frankly . . .”

  “I’ve turned over a new leaf,” he interrupted. “Marriage to you has given me a new sense of responsibility.”