A Grave for Lassiter

by Loren Zane Grey

  Lassiter raised his voice to be heard, but couldn’t compete against the tumult. It seemed as if the high ceiling with its heavy rafters and walls of raw lumber fairly bulged from the raucous sounds. Men were jammed back against the walls, the shorter ones kneeling or sitting on the floor.

  “It was your idea, Lassiter!” a bearded man shouted angrily and shook a fist in his face. “I never believed it possible, but now I figure this Lassiter’s got a yellow streak down his back as wide as a mule’s ass!”

  This was followed by a roar of approval.

  “Watch the doors, boys, so he doesn’t try and get away!” Farrell was yelling. “Shanagan’s going to cut him loose!”

  Shanagan produced a knife, stepped behind Lassiter and began sawing at ropes that bound arms and wrists. “Wish to hell I’d never gone along with this, Lassiter,” could barely be heard above the surge of voices. The ropes fell away. Returning circulation sent icy needles along the arms and shoulders.

  “Blackshear’s got the first round!” Farrell shouted, caught up now in the fever of the place, the raw smell of sweat and whiskey. “Jody Marsh takes the second, and so on. Still not too late to put your money on Lassiter.”

  There were no takers. Farrell laughed. Those who had had the bad judgement to bet on Lassiter in the first place merely glared, having no doubt now that they were losers.

  Lassiter stared along an aisle through the bodies where Blackshear appeared. This followed by a mighty roar that seemed to threaten the roof. Jody Marsh was pounding an encouraging hand on Blackshear’s back.

  The size of the two men grinning together was awesome. Rage ripped through Lassiter as his eyes met with Farrell’s. He started to lunge forward, but a phalanx of bodies blocked him. As the swelling roar increased, Lassiter looked wildly for an exit he might use. Damned if he was going to stand here and let not one man but two beat him into the floor. As all attention was focused now on the advancing Blackshear, who was flexing the muscles of his enormous shoulders, Lassiter spun. He made a grab for the revolver at Brimmer’s belt, but Ukase thrust out a leg. Lassiter sprawled over it. Before he could right himself, he was seized by many hands. Some men had him by the arms, others around the middle and the legs. Angrily he fought, shouting above the waves of sound that it was all a mistake, that he had never bragged that he could whip both men. It was a goddamned lie!

  Only those in close were able to hear him above the bedlam.

  “Turn him my way, boys!” Blackshear yelled, all sixfeet three-inches and two hundred and fifty pounds of bone and muscle.

  And as the combined weight of many men swung Lassiter toward the giant challenger, Blackshear shot a fist at the jaw. Lassiter saw it coming, jerked his head so that knuckles only grazed a cheekbone.

  “Turn him loose,” Farrell ordered. “It’s him and Blackshear . . . for now!”

  There were to be four minute rounds, it was agreed. Shrunken little Miegs, in his black undertaker’s suit, was the timekeeper. In one hand he held a large gold watch.

  “All right, you sons of bitches!” Lassiter started to peel off his shirt. But Blackshear leaped in and with a triumphant roar ripped the shirt from Lassiter’s back.

  Blackshear, already shirtless, showed off bulging muscles as he threw Lassiter’s wadded up shirt into the crowd. Then he slammed a solid right to the breastbone. The force of the blow rattled Lassiter’s teeth and another one knocked him back several steps. Hands reached out and shoved him back. A volcano of noise erupted from the crowd as Blackshear came roaring in, both fists swinging.

  It seemed to the vociferous crowd that Blackshear was about to finish the fight before it had even gotten started. But Lassiter, amazingly light on his feet, spun away at the last possible moment. He landed two jolting lefts to the big man’s exposed left side. Blackshear grunted and hunched over. Then they began hammering each other from one end of the clear space to the other. Dust from their shuffling feet rose from the floor in layers and drifted toward the rafters.

  Finally in all the yelling, Lassiter heard the thin voice of the undertaker, “End of Round One!”

  Lassiter made the mistake of turning his head when a three-legged stool was shoved under him. Blackshear took that moment to elbow him on the jaw. So much power was behind the blow that Lassiter felt it to his ankles. The blow produced another mighty uproar from the onlookers.

  “Watch yourself there, Blackshear,” Farrell warned loudly; but with a trace of a smile. “We want this to be a fair fight!”

  Lassiter wanted to laugh. Fair fight. The biggest joke of the century.

  He sank to the stool and rinsed his mouth from a water bottle someone shoved on him. His nerves were raw. Farrell’s treachery not only to him but to Melody was like a myriad of red hot splinters driven into the flesh. He had suffered a battering in the first round, he’d be the first to admit. His breathing was ragged and he tasted blood where the inside of his mouth had been cut on a tooth. Was it possible that the bullet fired into his back over six months before and the long convalescence that followed had drained him?

  He caught sight of Kane Farrell through the crowd. The man was shoving thumbs into a wide belt. It left his coat open so that Lassiter glimpsed heel plates of a holstered revolver.

  If he could lunge through the crowd, get his hand on the gun, ram it into Farrell’s back and force the man to do his bidding, then the day might end well after all.

  He got to his feet, eyes on Farrell, not ten feet away.

  At that moment the reedy voice of the town undertaker was barely audible above the noise. “Round Two!” he shouted.

  But before Lassiter could make his move toward Farrell, he caught a blur of movement from a corner of his eye. The crowd was going wild. Cheers for Jody Marsh, the big man Lassiter had tangled with up at the Glory Mine. No hard breathing for Marsh. He was fresh, wearing a spotless white shirt. A broad grin knifed across the heavy face. A man with more finesse than Blackshear’s raw power, Lassiter had to admit.

  They came together, Lassiter clinging to the front of the white shirt while he got his breath. Marsh kept trying to beat him off, but Lassiter had his chin tucked against the broad chest and refused to have his hold broken.

  “I’m gonna beat you to your knees, then Blackshear’ll finish it!” Marsh snarled and tried an underhand to the groin. Lassiter, however, had sensed his intentions and twisted aside. He hit the bigger man in the mouth, splitting both lips. Dazed and angered, Marsh rushed in. Lassiter took a blow high on the forehead, but one to the jaw rocked him.

  He started backing. Vision in one eye blurred. Marsh seemed distant and almost ghostly, with incredibly long arms that punched him out of the blurry vagueness. His head felt as if it had been stepped on by a mule team. Another blow jarred his skull again. Another exploded his breath. Paralyzing pain enveloped him like a shroud. Somehow he fought his way back from the edge of blackness. A fist almost crumpled his nose, but not quite, for he was able somehow to jerk back his head in time. A fist landed viciously against his stomach. It seemed to him that the building tilted first one way, then the other and with it the banks of yelling sweated faces.

  As Marsh paused to hitch up his pants, Lassiter swung hard at the slight paunch overhanging the belt. Air gushed from the man’s lungs. He staggered. Lassiter caught him on the jaw with lefts and rights. The crowd was going mad as Marsh staggered.

  “End of Round Two!” could hardly be heard above the roaring in the big warehouse.

  Lassiter sank to his stool. He was getting the range of Marsh’s jaw. A few more solid blows like the last pair Lassiter had landed and Marsh would be down. But Lassiter forgot about the change in combatants at each round.

  A rested Blackshear loomed up, not even waiting till Lassiter got off the stool. He crashed into him with all the force of a runaway team. Lassiter grabbed Blackshear’s forearms, slick with sweat and went over backwards, pulling Blackshear with him. Blackshear landed on top of him.

  For just a moment his breath wa
s gone. And then he recovered and began to hammer away at both kidneys. When Blackshear got him by the throat, Lassiter drove both arms upward between the hands, forcing them apart.

  And in the same movement, Lassiter squirmed out from under the heavyweight, somersaulted on the floor and reached his feet. In the piercing din that followed, he felt heartened, despite himself. For some of the shouting was for him.

  Blackshear bounded to his feet, rushed Lassiter again. From one end of the cleared space to the other they fought. A deep cut on Lassiter’s right cheek made him aware of the warmth of his own blood. It trickled downward, soaking into the gout of black chest hair.

  Lassiter danced back and as he got set for another rush by the larger man, he heard the squeaky voice of Miegs, the undertaker-timekeeper.

  “Hell with it,” Lassiter heard him say above the noisy crowd. “Nobody pays no attention to me. Don’t need rounds. I say let ’em fight it out. The winner is the one still on his feet!”

  He grinned at Farrell, who gave him a nod of appreciation.

  The words of the timekeeper had caused a fresh outburst from the spectators. The eyes of most of them glassy with excitement and whiskey. They seemed to sense that this day they were witnessing history in the making. Never before had one man the guts to challenge two bigger men as opponents. A sight to behold. The events of this day to be passed on down to great-grandchildren.

  And as Miegs stepped back into the howling mob, Marsh swaggered up to hover at Lassiter’s back while Blackshear began to hammer his midsection and jaw. But Lassiter cleverly managed to avoid the heat of most punches by twisting his body at just the right angle so that the power was lessened, and at times lost altogether.

  “Hey, Shanagan!” one of the onlookers roared through cupped hands. “Ain’t fair. Two men on one . . . and at the same time!”

  “Shut up an’ set down!” others cried.

  Whatever reply Shanagan made was lost in the thunder of voices. Lassiter danced out of range of both men, pulling great draughts of air into his lungs. In the past, he had been hard-pressed at times to survive the brawny fists of tricksters. Now he was faced with not one, but two. He would have to make a bold move and quickly, because common sense told him he couldn’t survive for long the onslaught of four fists beating on his body. What would happen if he lost consciousness? What then, a knife blade sneaked between the ribs? Boot heels crashing down on an exposed face? As this skipped across his mind, his ears were continually assaulted by wave after wave of the raucous voices of the aroused crowd.

  Blackshear’s knuckles against his jaw suddenly sent him reeling backward. He spat blood and kept backing, his mouth filled with blood and mucus. Marsh struck him on the back of the head. Each blow now sounded like the slap of wet canvas against a wall.

  From beneath tangled black brows, Marsh stared at him in disbelief. “You ain’t human!” Marsh yelled just before Lassiter broke his nose.

  Despite himself, Lassiter tasted a raw edge of fear. Blackshear hit him a solid blow to the temple that set up a clanging, as if great bells rolled around inside his skull. As Lassiter reeled, Marsh clubbed him on the kidney. It was almost a paralyzing blow, but somehow Lassiter managed to twist aside, using elbows to fend off Blackshear while he got his bearings and some of his breath.

  Pandemonium rocked the building. Mules in a nearby corral brayed in unison.

  “Now,” Lassiter told himself. Now he had to gamble.

  Lassiter spun suddenly, his back to Blackshear as he sensed rather than heard Jody Marsh closing in behind him. The swell of raw voices in the warehouse seemed to rattle the walls. Marsh had his right fist drawn far back, ready to slam it into Lassiter’s rib cage with all the force of a hurled stone.

  But Lassiter moved so quickly, it caught the man off balance. Before Marsh could make a correction, Lassiter had spun out of the range of Blackshear’s deadly fist. And it occurred to Lassiter suddenly it was he dealing out the punishment now, the two dancing bears giving ground.

  At that moment Marsh’s jaw was fully exposed. The startled look on his face turned blank as Lassiter found the range of that shelf of bone and solid flesh. Lassiter’s heels came up from the floor as he swung with every ounce of strength remaining in his body. Marsh’s eyes crossed. His head bobbled like a ball on a string as he crashed face down to the floor. Before Lassiter could twist around to confront the remaining menace, Blackshear grabbed him from behind.

  “I’ll finish you off, you son of a bitch!” Blackshear cried.

  With another great surge of strength, Lassiter rammed backward with his right elbow into the pit of Blackshear’s stomach. It produced a noise like escaping steam.

  As Blackshear bent over from the blow, Lassiter broke the man’s hold. Blackshear was staggering, hunched over as he gasped for breath. Lassiter didn’t wait, but stepped in and threw a solid right to the cheekbone. Skin split as if cleaved with an ax blade. Then he smashed the lips for a second time, punishing the nose until it bled like a fountain.

  “Ain’t no fair,” Blackshear blurted and went down while searching for Farrell’s face in the wildly cheering crowd. “He’s gotta wait till Marsh gits on his feet. . . .”

  Somehow the big man staggered to his feet and met Lassiter’s onslaught to jaw and midsection. Lassiter’s howl of laughter added to Blackshear’s inane protest, mingled with the fresh outburst from the crowd that roared through the building like a tornado. This time when Blackshear dropped, he lay a few feet from the unconscious Marsh. Men were pounding one another on the back, yelling, grinning.

  The little man who had told Lassiter earlier that he had bet on him, was holding aloft a sack of money. No one could hear the jingle of coins because of the noise.

  In the press of bodies the water bottle that once had been passed to Lassiter was tipped over. Water belched from the mouth. Lassiter snatched it, tipped back his head and took a long drink. Never had anything tasted as good. He shook his head to try and drive away the fuzziness. Sweat spun into the sunlight from his damp hair.

  Shanagan thrust his beefy face close to Lassiter’s.

  Lassiter stared at him.

  In the embarrasing moment, Shanagan said, “Free whiskey at my place for you, Lassiter. For as long as you want it.”

  Without replying, Lassiter thrust his way through the screaming men. Some touched his arms, his shoulders. “Great fight, Lassiter . . . greatest I ever seen . . .” sang at him from all quarters.

  He saw Farrell standing with a look of disbelief on his face. Lassiter said, “I’ll never forget your hand in this.” Farrell slid away into the crowd.

  Lassiter still breathed hard and every muscle in his body seemed as if it had been put to the supreme test. It hurt to stand up straight and he knew he had a face that would frighten small children.

  Lassiter was delayed by men wanting to congratulate him. At last he was able to push his way outside. The pandemonium followed him. Somehow he found his horse where it had been tied to a rack outside the warehouse.

  Numbly he got into the saddle. The crowd milled around the horse, shouting Lassiter’s name.

  He saw Farrell’s big bay horse where it had been left at the rack, nervously twitching its tail because of the press of bodies.

  Just because the horse was nearby didn’t necessarily mean that Farrell had stayed at the warehouse. He might have walked to his house in anger and frustration, Lassiter told himself, probably kicking savagely at every stone in his path.

  A hard smile touched Lassiter’s swollen lips as he pictured the possibility of finishing it all on this eventful day. To hell with the fact that his mind was blurred, that his right hand was in no shape for gunspeed. “Get it over with!” kept hammering through his head.

  Some of the men started to follow him, but he twisted in the saddle, shouting, “I don’t want company!”

  Most of the crowd turned back, but some didn’t. The former knew he was edgy and they wanted to avoid trouble. Besides, there was drinking to do at
Shanagan’s, along with discussion of Bluegate’s historic day.

  Chapter Twenty

  As Lassiter turned his horse away from the mob, he heard a woman frantically calling his name. It sounded vaguely like Roma, but looking around in his benumbed state he saw only a wall of exuberant male faces.

  An older man with a downsweep of gray moustache drew his attention. The man expressed the majority opinion. “A fella your size whippin’ two big men . . . ain’t never been done before. You won me a little money, Lassiter. Won’t never forget it.”

  Lassiter nodded his head. Other voices said, “I’m for you, Lassiter . . . Me, too . . . And me . . .”

  He was a block away when he saw something coming across a vacant lot, green with spring weeds. Because his vision was slightly distorted, he had to squint with his good eye, his head back. It was female, he could tell, because of the long hair and the swaying hips when she walked. And she had pale hair and was holding a long rip in her shirt with one hand. Every few feet she would look back over her shoulder.

  And then she saw Lassiter. A hand flew to her mouth and the eyes widened either in surprise or revulsion, he couldn’t tell which. One thing he did know, it was Melody and her shirt was torn and she seemed frightened.

  “Lassiter!” she cried and started to run toward him. He closed the distance between them. The move of dismounting in a hurry brought a flurry of pain. “Melody, what happened?”

  She put her forehead against his chest and began to cry. His shirt was gone and his chest, smeared with blood, was now dampened by her tears.

  “How’d you free your hands?” he asked, remembering she had been tied.

  “I . . . I tricked Vance. I . . . I promised him . . .” Her face reddened with embarrassment, but she plunged on. “He was so anxious, he cut me loose . . .” She drew a deep breath. “When his back was turned, I hit him with a bookend.”

  “I hope you killed the son of a bitch!”

  “Oh, don’t say that. Even about Vance . . .”

  “Why the hell didn’t he stay away, instead of coming back to foul up your life . . . ?”