A Grave for Lassiter by Loren Zane Grey Page A

gesture was most welcome. Turning his head, he met her lips with his own.
    For only an instant did it cross his mind that she was another man’s wife. Man? A weak-kneed snivelling crybaby. Any guilt he might have felt slid off as easily as water from a greased sheet of iron.
    In the morning she avoided his eyes. “I suppose you think I’m awful.”
    He kissed her, but she pushed away. “It mustn’t happen again,” she said hoarsely, and started to run a comb through her long pale hair. . . .
    The story of how Lassiter had handled the two toughs up at the Glory Mine soon spread through the mountains. Mostly it was Melody who would go into detail about how Lassiter had made Dover and Marsh ride on the tailgate of the wagon before turning them loose. Most of the time, when Lassiter was near, she acted as though she was walking three feet off the ground. And her gray eyes would acquire a strange glow.
    But Lassiter pretended indifference. He had to remind himself that there were more important things to consider, such as his determination to revive the fortunes of the Northguard Freight Company. He kept waiting for a reply to his letters written to Herm Falconer down at Rimrock.
    Later that week Bert Oliver appeared at the company headquarters in Aspen Creek. The lanky former Confederate soldier said that Bluegate buzzed with news that the freight company had taken a turn for the better. Now he wanted to be a part of Lassiter’s game to bring down Kane Farrell.
    â€œYou’re the only man around here with guts enough to stand up to him,” Oliver said gravely in his drawl. “An’ I’d like to be with you.”
    Lassiter studied him, knowing from the leathery skin and deep eye creases that he must be close to forty or even more. Oliver seemed to sense his hesitation.
    â€œIn the war I was a dead shot. My job was to ride rifle guard on the mail wagon. A lot of blue bellies tried to jump me. None of ’em ever made it.”
    A grinning Lassiter welcomed him with outstretched hand.
    Later in the week, Lassiter recruited three more men who had heard he was hiring. He gave it to them straight. Wages would be tops, but they wouldn’t be paid until finances improved. About all Lassiter could promise for the moment were full stomachs.
    The men were agreeable. At least they’d eat until the money started rolling in. Jobs in the area were hard to come by until local ranches started hiring extra hands for the spring roundup, which was over a month away.
    Business picked up, but it was mostly short hauls. What Lassiter wanted was a big one. It came when Melody was notified by mail that a shipment expected by the Bitterroot Mining Company had arrived via the railroad and was now at Montclair, a week’s trip to the north.
    That same day Lassiter rode into the mountains for a talk with Saul Betancourt, superintendent of the Bitterroot Mine, who had been waiting since the previous fall for equipment that would enable him to start the construction of a smelter.
    Betancourt, a lean man in high-laced boots and wearing a heavy jacket, greeted Lassiter gravely. “I heard about the trouble you gave Adams over at the Glory Mine. He’s a pompous ass. I guess you taught him a lesson.”
    Betancourt listened to what Lassiter had to say about the shipment up at Montclair. Then he sighed and ran a hand over short-cropped brown hair. “I more or less promised the business to Farrell.”
    But Lassiter argued the case for Northguard. And when he had finished, Betancourt said, “I agree with everything you say. Sure I realize that Farrell is undercutting your price to drive Northguard out of business.”
    â€œIf that happens,” Lassiter put in, “freight rates will go high as the moon. He’ll not only be top dog in these parts, but the only dog.”
    â€œAnd he’ll have every mining company in a box,” Betancourt added.
    â€œIn a box with the