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

laughter.
    â€œWait a minute . . .” Lassiter started to caution him.
    â€œI’m Bert Oliver. An’you are . . .” Oliver was squinting up at Lassiter. Here the light was reasonably good, for they stood under one of the copper-sheathed overhead lamps.
    â€œAnd I’m . . .” Lassiter grabbed a name out of the air. “I’m Bill Jasper.”
    â€œHell fire, you’re
Lassiter!
”
    The name cracked like a whip at that end of the crowded bar. Men stood stiffly, eyes widened. “Don’t use his name on me!” Lassiter’s voice was harsh. “That renegade’s dead!”
    Oliver seemed embarrassed by the reaction, the staring drinkers, the sudden stillnes. Men had started to edge away.
    â€œI only meant that I remember seein’ this Lassiter once. Was down at the border. The sheriff there made a big to-do about givin’ him a belt with his initial on the silver buckle. You kinda reminded me of this fella Lassiter is all.” Oliver gave a nervous glance around. Some of the customers had resumed their conversations, but others still stared as if unable to make up their minds.
    â€œThat ain’t Lassiter,” said a little man in a brown suit. “I
    oughta know. I buried Lassiter myself.” He winked and laughed. He belched and swayed back to the bar where he picked up a full glass of whiskey and drank from it.
    When the room seemed back to normal, Oliver leaned close. “Sorry I spoke up like that,” he whispered. “Reckon I had too much whiskey in my gullet.” Then in a louder voice, “Thanks for the whiskey, Bill Jasper.”
    He lurched toward the doors. Some men watched him with puzzled frowns. Others studied the bearded Lassiter.
    By then Lassiter had finished his whiskey and he tossed a coin on the bar to pay for the drinks. Trying to remain calm, he saw a heavyset man with bright eyes pick up the coin. “ ’Ol Bert’s all right, but he gets kinda mixed in the head when he drinks too much,” the man commented.
    â€œI guess we all do at times,” Lassiter said carefully.
    â€œI’m Shanagan,” the man said, with a smile that revealed two gold incisors. “If Milo Miegs says he buried Lassiter, then that’s the final word. He’s the local undertaker.”
    â€œSeems like it,” Lassiter responded.
    Shanagan slid Lassiter’s change across the bar. “Hope you get to be a regular here . . .” Shanagan broke off. “What was your name again? Oh yeah, Jasper. Bill Jasper I recollect hearin’ you say.”
    Lassiter gave the man a nod, then stepped sideways to the doors. Just in case one of the customers decided to probe deeper into his identity.
    Lassiter was sitting at the counter of a small cafe, eating a bowl of beef stew, when Bert Oliver slipped onto the adjoining stool. “Made a fool outa myself in Shanagan’s,” he said in a low voice. “I. . . . I didn’t even know you was s’posed to be dead till somebody just told me up at the livery barn.”
    â€œForget it. I only hope I can count on you keeping your mouth shut.”
    â€œSure can,” Oliver assured him. “I don’t look it mebby, but I’m a good hand with a gun. In case you be needin’ one.”
    â€œWhat’d they say at the livery barn?”
    â€œOnly that you got kilt in the mountains late last year. An’ that you an’ Kane Farrell never had no love for each other. You hatin’ Farrell I like.”
    â€œHow you feel about him?”
    â€œThe same as you. Hate the bastard.”
    Lassiter sat where he could watch the door. The stew was tasty and filling. Oliver slurped coffee next to him.
    â€œGuess the beard hasn’t fooled too many,” Lassiter mused. “It sure didn’t fool you.”
    â€œI used to see you when you was segundo for the XT outfit outa Tucson. An’ then I remember you when the sheriff made his