A Grave for Lassiter

by Loren Zane Grey

  Scrubbing a forearm across his sweated face, he returned to the wheel block. By working it in short tugs he was able to loosen it considerably. Here the ground was level with a barely perceptible slant until it reached the end of the steep road. He reached up with both hands, intending to give one mighty wrench, then leap aside as the wagon began to move.

  Then he thought of his gun. Better to have it handy if somebody jumped him. He drew the .45 from his holster. A nearly new weapon he had bought for a few dollars from a drifter. He’d paid to have his initials etched in the grips, just in case the drifter had stolen the weapon and somebody tried to claim it.

  He laid the gun on the ground by his knee. Taking a deep breath, he reached up to tug the big rock aside. Then, before the wagon gained momentum, he would duck into the trees, mount his horse and be off. Near as he could tell, the only other saddled horse at the mine was the one Lassiter rode. A fine animal. After Lassiter was done for, Vanderson intended to talk to Farrell about letting him have it.

  If Lassiter tried to chase after him in the dense coverage of the pines, he was a dead man. The prospect of finishing Lassiter off brought a nervous smile under the mustache he was so proud of.

  He was tugging and working the large rock. It was gradually inching out from under the heavy steel rim of the wheel. Anxious to get the job done, he cupped the fingers of his left hand around the top of the rock, while exerting pressure at the base with his right.

  The rock moved farther than anticipated, out from under the wheel rim, but not to one side as he had intended. His right hand slipped off the base of the rock at the last moment. Before he could jerk his left hand out of the way, his fingers were trapped between the wheel and the rock. Terrible pain shot through him, more intense than any he had ever experienced. Somehow he managed to jerk the hand free as he nudged the rock aside in a desperate move with his knee.

  In shock he stared at his mangled fingers as the wagon moved slightly. They were smashed, the ends flat and spurting blood. Dazedly he looked at the blood as great bursts of pain filled his mind. Then he realized he was screaming.

  As the wagon began to move more freely he barely got his right leg out of the way before it was crushed by the heavy load.

  Up on the platform, the screaming caused Bert Oliver to throw a rifle to his shoulder. Vanderson, still screaming hysterically, snatched up his revolver and fired up at the lanky Oliver. He never did know whether he hit the mark or missed, for at that moment something exploded in the brain. Mercifully his pain was suddenly gone with the flood of darkness that engulfed him.

  Lassiter came pounding from the mine office, gun in hand. “What the hell happened?” he yelled at Oliver and then saw that all four wheels of the second wagon were turning as it reached the grade. It began to pick up speed.

  Oliver was pointing at Vanderson crumpled near the loading platform. “Son of a bitch shot at me. I nailed him!”

  Through the head, it looked like. “But that goddamn wagon!” Lassiter yelled.

  “Too late, Lassiter,” Oliver said in a strained voice. “He worked the blocks out from under them wheels. An’ practically right under my nose. My gawd! What’ll happen when that wagon gits to town? . . .”

  “If I can help it, it won’t. I’m going after it!”

  “Boss, you’ll bust your neck!”

  Dingell came charging from the office just as Sam Allard fired a pistol as he fled toward the trees. But the bullet clanged off the stack of steel rails instead of into Dingell.

  Dingell cut loose. Allard, at a dead run, collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs. “That one I been wondering about, to tell the truth. Lassiter, where you goin’? . . .”

  But his voice barely carried above the sudden thunderous roar as the runaway wagon, going backward, picked up momentum. It was now fifty feet down the grade and picking up speed every second. Almost hidden now by a great gout of dust raised by the tongue dragging behind.

  Without even stopping to consider the hazards, Lassiter leaped into the saddle of his black horse, rammed in the spurs. At reckless speed he began to chase the rumbling monster of a wagon.

  Sparks flew in the dusty haze as wheel rims struck the stretches of bare rock. Down, down raced the speeding wagon, straight as the arrow for which the mine above had been named. The roadbed was in a natural depression all the way down, with the sparkling creek on one side and thick pines and aspens on the other. On the left side was a man-made bank, erected to minimize the chances of the road being completely washed out whenever the creek overflowed. Even so, most of the top soil had been washed away during last winter’s storms. Raging waters had found a natural conduit in the roadway when hard rains struck higher elevations.

  A gust of wind tore off Lassiter’s hat; it went sailing through the air like a black, wingless bird. Ends of black hair whipped his face. Wind tore at his eyes so that he had to squint to keep the racing wagon in view. His horse at a gallant run was gradually closing the gap. But at any second the animal could slip on bare rock and send them both to disaster. Somehow in the mad rush down the mountain it kept its feet. Mane and tail streamed out by the wind generated in the mad race to catch up to the runaway.

  Once he thought the wagon would solve his problems by destroying itself. The left wheels struck a ledge of rock that had been uncovered by hard rains. It bounded high into the air, tipped at a dangerous angle that Lassiter was sure would send it crashing over the embankment and down into the creek. But somehow the speeding vehicle righted itself and continued the plunge down the mountain at dizzying speed.

  When the wagon had tilted, Lassiter noticed the tongue fly high into the air as it struck an obstruction. Here a cacophony of sound beat at his eardrums as the wheels on the right side screamed along a stretch of rock and shale.

  Wind sucked at his breath. Every muscle tense, he unhooked his catchrope, which was bouncing with the great lunges of the galloping horse. Bent over in the saddle, he shook out a loop. If he could time it just right when the end of the tongue went flying into the air, he might be able to rope it. And then send his horse either to the left or the right. It would turn the front wheels just enough to send the careening load either into the creek or smashing through the border of trees.

  Again the tongue bounced when striking a rock. He shot out a loop. He missed. His heart lurched. He could taste bile. His throat was dry, his lips tasting like warm paper.

  He tried again. Again he missed and hauled in his rope, being careful the speeding horse didn’t trip on it.

  Some distance ahead was the big dip in the road where the creek veered to the right. Pray to God that a wheel would be smashed on the rocks. Anything to break the deadly downward plunge that second by second was sending it hurtling toward the busy town.

  Roma left the hotel by the alley door because she needed to stretch her legs. Tomorrow she would see the last of Bluegate. She wouldn’t be sorry to leave. She had acted a fool over a man because of having fallen blindly in love. And when she thought he had spurned her for a slim blonde, she had turned to a man who was his enemy. Anything to disrupt his tranquil life with his new woman.

  But she was the one who had paid the price for this folly. Lassiter had told her only an hour or so ago that the blonde meant nothing to him. Perhaps he was only trying to be kind. On the other hand, he had seemed sincere. Reaching the end of the alley, she hurried to cross the street so as not to be so conspicuous to the occasional passerby. As a veiled woman she was bound to cause comment, she well knew.

  When she reached the west wall of the big warehouse, she began to slow and to relax. By the time she had walked clear around the big sprawling structure and returned to the hotel, she would have gotten the kinks out of her muscles. She had always been active and being cooped up in a small hotel room was like prison.

  Her main objective in life now was to make peace with her father and her betrothed and get on with her life. For a time she had thought there might be a different life for her with Lassiter but
that had only been a very bad dream. Lassiter was lucky to be rid of such a jealous fool.

  As she neared the end of the warehouse, she could hear the voices of young boys. Often on previous walks from Farrell’s house, she had seen them there lagging pennies against the large back wall of the building. Here they were more or less inconspicuous from adults who might frown at the gambling of boys so young.

  As she turned around the north wall of the warehouse, she started toward the boys at the far end. They were laughing wildly and an older boy was trying to hush them.

  They saw her coming and stared. A strange lady who limped slightly and wore a heavy veil so her face didn’t show. A lady of mystery.

  She had taken no more than three or four steps when she heard a sudden sound. A great rumbling—a chilling sound. It came from the direction of the mountain. She turned so she could look up the scar that was the road, straight as a line drawn in sand between two posts.

  Far up the road she saw dust and something that caused her to utter a small cry of fear. Out of the dust came the rear end of a wagon travelling at tremendous speed. It was heading directly for the dozen or so young boys gathered at the far end of the wall.

  Picking up her skirts, she began to run and to scream at the boys of the approaching danger.

  In Shanagan’s there was also a sudden awareness of the strange and distant rumble.

  “Sounds like thunder,” Miegs the undertaker stated positively.

  “No thunder like I ever heard,” Shanagan said from behind his bar, round head cocked at the increasing roar.

  Kane Farrell, at the end of the bar with his bottle of Colonel’s Choice, grabbed Rip Tolliver by the arm. Some of Tolliver’s whiskey spilled. Farrell’s green eyes bore a peculiar shine.

  “If it’s what I think it is,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  He drew Tolliver out of the saloon. “Be ready to jump when I yell,” Farrell said, and began to run toward Casitas Street and the warehouse.

  Lineus Swallow, who had gone to the hotel to get a room, came out of the building and called to them. “What’s that noise?” Everyone was turned now in the direction of the sound that seemed to be increasing by the second.

  “Come along, Lin!” Farrell shouted. And Swallow came nimbly down the veranda steps and started running at Rip Tolliver’s side. Farrell was slightly ahead, a tight grin stretched across his face.

  From the sound, it seemed that Vanderson had fulfilled his mission. Bless him. And if Lassiter killed him, probably had, an indignant Swallow would say that Vanderson had been his friend, and demand satisfaction. Seconds later Lassiter would be dead in the dust.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  As Lassiter watched, from the saddle of his speeding horse, he saw the roaring runaway crash into the creek where it crossed the road, throwing water in rainbow tints through bars of sunlight. Without losing a thumbs-width of speed, it rumbled up the far side and on down the road, always with the desperate horseman in pursuit. Shaking out a loop for another try, hoping the flying feet of the tiring horse didn’t get entangled and bring them down.

  Ahead he could see the north wall of the warehouse. And at street level were some figures, not much larger than ants at the distance. His heartbeat quickened. Human beings in the path of the runaway.

  Cold sweat dampened Lassiter’s body. Every nerve end screamed. He tried again with the rope as the tongue flew into the air. He missed. But this time it was closer. Very close. But dear God was there time enough to halt this plunging mountain of steel and wood?

  At this speed, why didn’t an axle snap or a wheel spin off? He reeled in his dragging rope and got ready for another attempt.

  Never had the north wall of the warehouse looked so formidable, like the flat side of a towering cliff. So it seemed in the dizzy moments as the hurtling behemoth narrowed the gap. At top speed, with the saddlehorn jolting against his breastbone, Lassiter, bent over on the back of his galloping horse, shook out another loop in his rope. He set it whirling above his head. Using all his strength to keep the tearing wind that rushed against him like a giant’s breath from blowing it down. The loop formed, whirled, whirled and he made his cast.

  Just as he let it go, following through so he was within kissing distance of the billowing mane, he saw Roma. Just a flash of her standing against the warehouse wall, motionless as an insect under glass. Her black eyes wide, the lips taut as bowstrings. And she was frantically tugging at the arm of a boy. A wisp of a little fellow probably no more than six or seven. The narrow little face seemed ashen, the eyes enormous. His mouth was wide open as if screaming. But due to the monumental din, the boy’s voice was unheard.

  For Lassiter to digest all this had taken no longer than the twitch of an eyelid. Roma’s veil had slipped off, revealing her swollen features. By brute force, she dislodged the frightened boy from the wall and sent him spinning toward Casitas Street. People in the street were scattering. Voices also beyond hearing because of the thundering runaway, the pound of hoofbeats from the lone horseman.

  As the wagon tongue bounced high into the air after striking a half-buried stretch of flat rock, Lassiter felt as if his right arm was nearly wrenched from its socket. Even so, exultation swept through him as he realized his rope had snagged the roaring beast at last. Which way to turn this granite cliff on wheels hurtling down a mountainside? Lassiter started to wheel his horse to the left, but that would endanger Roma, who was still running wildly. As was the young boy who had found his legs and was scurrying to escape the great wagon with its load of deadly metal.

  Desperately Lassiter reined his horse to the right. Wheels screeched as it left the road and hurtled toward the warehouse wall. And then with a shudder the wagon began to break apart. It started to cartwheel. Added to the din was the clang of steel rails and the mammoth copper boiler being ejected into the air. What was left of the speeding wagon slammed into the warehouse wall, going through as if it were made of paper. Lumber splintered as well as glass and there were screams from inside the building.

  “Roma!” Lassiter cried out as he saw the girl nearly out of danger. But a steel rail, flying through the air like a flung spear, found her. She went down beneath it. Lassiter groaned. His horse, running for so long, seemed unable to stop. It carried him through the great gap in the warehouse wall. Fifteen feet inside the shattered building, Lassiter managed to bring it to a halt. It stood with barrel heaving, slick with sweat. Foam dripped from its muzzle.

  A dazed Lassiter stared at the chaos. The desk where he had first seen Melody, months before, was flattened under the copper boiler. Two men lay at the edge of what had been the arena the day of the fight. Another man was crumpled over a shattered chair. From his right arm was a length of white bone.

  In the street there were cries and harsh voices. The sound of men running.

  Lassiter got out of the saddle and stood on a stable section of flooring; much of it had been shattered by hurtling steel rails and ore cars. What was left of the wagon lay scattered, wheels and shattered body.

  His catch rope, like a long dead snake, dangled from the end of the wagon tongue, which had been torn loose and now lay propped against one of the ore cars.

  With his breathing returning to normal, he was about to rush outside and see if Roma was badly injured when he heard a man’s voice behind him.

  “. . . and you shot Vanderson down like a dog. He was my friend. Better than friend, he was shirttail kin. Turn around, Lassiter, and pull your gun while you’re doin’ it!”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Lineus Swallow. Turn around, damn you!”

  Farrell’s man, inventing a tale of relationship to that cowardly Vanderson, the cause of this chaos and responsible for Roma being smashed to earth by a steel rail.

  He was in no mood to play games, with Roma lying out in the street, injured or dead.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Swallow with a confident grin, wearing a red vest decorated by a gold watch chain with larg
e and impressive links. Swallow’s right hand dangled like a rag in a breeze just above the grips of a holstered gun.

  In the gaping hole that had been the north wall of the building were many faces, some frightened. As Swallow’s challenge echoed throughout the wrecked end of the building, men began to push out of the way, some shouting their fear.

  Lassiter made his turn quickly, dropping to one knee as he did so. Swallow wasn’t going to give him a chance to turn clear around. That was evident. For when Lassiter sank to one knee in his turn, Swallow’s gun crashed. Lassiter sensed rather than felt the puff of air against his left cheek as a bullet missed by inches where his heart should have been.

  It was from a crouched posisiton that Lassiter thumbed a shot. Swallow staggered, looked surprised as the front of his red vest began to darken. Light was leaving his shocked eyes even as he collapsed.

  “He tried to trick you, Lassiter,” Lodor of the Mercantile shouted excitedly.

  Lassiter pushed his way through the crowd, having no wish to see Swallow. He had seen more than his share of death in his lifetime.

  He got outside and elbowed his way to where Roma lay in the street. He thanked God because he could see that her eyes were open. Her breasts rose and fell evenly to show that she breathed normally.

  Two men had bent down to lift a steel rail from her right leg.

  “Let me,” Lassiter said and took the rail into his own two hands. He threw off the heavy length of steel and heard it thud against the earth. A smear of blood stained the right side of her dark green skirt.

  “My leg,” she groaned.

  Lassiter’s rigid features melted into a smile of encouragement. “Doc will take care of your leg. I want a litter for this lady,” he said to the crowd and there was a scurrying of men to carry out his request.

  There was a man’s sudden scream. “Farrell, you tromped my toes!”