A Grave for Lassiter by Loren Zane Grey Page B

lid nailed down.”
    Betancourt thought about it. They were in his spacious office with its wall maps and surveying equipment. A window overlooked a new tunnel that a crew of men were digging into the side of a mountain.
    â€œLassiter, do you think you can handle the shipment?”
    â€œI’ve got good men. We’ll handle it.”
    For a moment Betancourt studied the rugged looking man with the penetrating blue eyes. Then a broad grin broke across his brown face. “Tell you the truth, I’ve been hesitant about Farrell. A gent with his rep as a cardsharp is apt to deal off the bottom of the deck in business matters as well.”
    â€œI wouldn’t trust him any further than I could see a scorpion’s shadow.”
    Betancourt laughed, then pursed his lips and fingered the brass-framed spectacles that rested on his button nose. “I thought for a time the railroad might run a spur line down here. But no chance of that now, I understand. And I do want to get that smelter built.”
    â€œYou keep the stuff you need for the smelter coming to Montclair. We’ll see that you get fast delivery up here at Bitterroot.”
    â€œI’ve a hunch you won’t let Farrell push you around.”
    â€œIt may not be easy,” Lassiter admitted. “But here in the West, what is?”
    Lassiter was just entering Aspen Creek the next morning when he saw a blooded roan at the rail in front of Northguard headquarters. Lassiter dismounted next to the splendid animal. It bore a fine saddle with KF etched in the saddle skirt.
    He heard voices coming from the office. First Melody’s then Kane Farrell’s, through a partially opened window.
    â€œ. . . and I think the offer is fair enough,” Farrell was saying smoothly.”
    â€œI suppose it is from your standpoint.” Melody sat at the table that was used as a desk, nervously shuffling some papers. Farrell stood before her, hands behind his back. He was half-turned so that Lassiter could see the classic profile.
    â€œI’m sure you understand by now that running a freight line is no business for a female.”
    Through the window Lassiter saw Melody’s chin come up and for a moment thought Farrell had said the wrong thing. He was surprised to see Melody’s shoulders slump, as if the fight had gone out of her.
    â€œI . . . I do dread violence,” she said in a voice so low it barely carried to the window.
    â€œI’ve only given you a few facts, Mrs. Vanderson. The innocent will suffer if this foolish feud is allowed to continue.”
    â€œI’m thinking of Dad Hornbeck wounded. And Lord knows how many others before it’s over.”
    â€œAs I explained, there are always those on the fringe who would shoot an old man like Hornbeck. Just to try and cut themselves a piece of cake, so to speak.”
    â€œAn old man like that, shot for no reason,” she said in despair.
    â€œThat’s the way those things happen. Who knows who may be next? As I said earlier, perhaps even Lassiter.”
    She bit her lips. “Oh, no. . . .”
    â€œHe’s lived a charmed life. But a lot of men want to see him dead.”
    â€œA horrible way to live, with that threat hanging over his head.”
    â€œHe’d be better off to go deep into Mexico and live out his days. He’ll last longer than he will around here.”
    â€œYou really think so?”
    Farrell nodded and drew a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of a knee-length leather coat. His breeches were fawn colored. The only blemish to his attire were some specks of mud around the built-up heels of his dark brown boots.
    â€œIf you’ll just sign this agreement, Mrs. Vanderson. Your freight line in exchange for my Bank draft of four thousand dollars. Which I say is quite fair, under the circumstances.”
    The sound of the door opening caused Farrell to turn his head. His green eyes narrowed at the sight of Lassiter. He