Read Online A Grave for Lassiter by Loren Zane Grey - Free Book Online Page A

penetrating. He neared the saloon.
    A tinny piano accompanied drunken voices in a rendition of “Tenting Tonight.”
    A large new sign was displayed on the saloon building: SHANAGAN’S TO REPLACE DIXIE’S. It had been owned by a Southerner who had come out of the Confederate Army with a bad arm and a dragging foot.
    A familiar wash of warm air hit Lassiter when he stepped through swing doors and stood with his back to the wall. Mingled odors of beer, whisky, and tobacco smoke struck his nostrils. The smell of coal oil from the lamps floated along the ceilings.
    Not seeing any familiar faces, Lassiter edged up to the long bar. “Tenting Tonight” was just concluding. Even though the war had been over for some years, enough old timers remained to reminisce and sing the old camp songs. Some were blubbering.
    Lassiter found himself standing next to a lanky middle-aged man, fairly drunk and with moist eyes. “ ’Scuse me, friend,” he said, turning to Lassiter, “but when I hear them songs I remember ol’ Ned. Lost him at First Manassas.”
    â€œA lot of men were lost,” Lassiter put in.
    â€œEven though that’s a blue belly song, it still stirs me up,” the stranger confided. “Me, I was Reb. Reckon you can tell by my voice.”
    Lassiter nodded and finally got the attention of a perspiring barkeep, who set out bottle and glass. Lassiter fluffed out his beard. He doubted if anyone would recognize him with the beard in the dim light.
    The first drink of whiskey hit his stomach like a clenched fist.
    Lassiter took a deep breath, then poured for the drunk who had been overcome by the wartime ballad. The man thanked him profusely, doffing his hat to reveal a few hairs plastered to a pink scalp. Bushy sideburns seemed to give width to a narrow face.
    â€œDo you know a man named Herm Falconer?” Lassiter asked, seeking information.
    â€œKnowed a Josh Falconer, but he up an’ died last year.”
    Lassiter frowned. Hadn’t Herm put in an appearance yet? He asked about Vance Vanderson, which brought a sour look to the stranger’s long face.
    â€œVanderson! Good riddance, I say.”
    â€œHe dead?” Lassiter asked narrowly.
    â€œThe world ain’t that lucky. He lit out for Denver, so I hear.”
    That meant Melody was running things alone. He wasn’t surprised that Vanderson would run out on her when the going got tough. Lassiter’s eyes roamed up and down the busy bar. Everyone seemed engaged in conversation. Many Saturday night red eyes were in evidence. The tinny piano, played by a fat man in a checkered vest, was thumping again.
    â€œNorthguard Freight Company still operate out of Bluegate?” Lassiter asked the former Rebel. The man was making him nervous by the way he stared in the backbar mirror. He turned to study Lassiter more closly.
    â€œAin’t called Northguard here in town,” the man said. “Called Farrell now.”
    Lassiter’s bearded lips tightened. His eyes skipped around the big smoky room, hoping Farrell might have entered while he was talking. Then he cautioned himself to move slowly. Although he had emptied many boxes of ammunition down at El Puente, shooting at rocks with Roma looking on wasn’t the real test. It was one thing to face a row of rocks on a dirt shelf. Quite something else to face up to a man. Especially one as ruthless and tricky as Kane Farrell.
    He couldn’t afford to make some damn fool play ahead of time and risk having his head blown off. Tonight at the graveyard had been close enough.
    The stranger was peering into Lassiter’s eyes. Then he slapped the bartop a whack with his open hand and gave a hoot of laughter. “I knew I knowed you, by gad. I’d know them eyes anywhere, beard or not. . . .”
    Lassiter felt his mouth go dry. Several men nearby were looking on, startled by the Southerner’s slap on the bartop and his strident