Free A Grave for Lassiter by Loren Zane Grey Page A

Shanagan had learned. Showing off his money for a lady’s benefit—a woman one-third his age. Those who told the story got that pitying smile on their faces, as men do who think one of their peers has made a damned fool of himself.
    Josh Falconer’s married bliss hadn’t lasted long enough to spit, as one man put it.
    Shanagan knew the problems that can torment a man. He’d had his own. He had been drifting since a bloody night back in Kansas when he was supposed to be in Omaha. He had sneaked home to find his wife entertaining two of the town dandies. His intention was to kill his wife as well as her suspected lover, but he hadn’t counted on a pair of them. When one of them jumped him, he killed both men with his double barreled shotgun and fled. He changed his name from Buelton to Shanagan, the name of his late aunt’s husband. For a time he barely outran the uproar over the double murder. But soon memory of it faded, as did the trail he left.
    After gambling his way West, he reached Bluegate, where he recognized a fellow thief, Kane Farrell. He had watched with amusement as Farrell fleeced some of the important men of the area at cards. Only a few, like Bert Oliver, seemed to realize they had been cheated.
    Shanagan was lucky. The saloon owner suffered from war wounds and wanted to get out. Shanagan bought him out, cheap. He decided to wait until an opportunity presented itself so he could declare himself Farrell’s partner. Farrell, driven by an insatiable ambition, was headed for the heights and Shanagan intended to go right along with him. And if the time ever came when there was room for only one of them at the top, he considered himself clever enough and ruthless enough to deal with that eventuality.
    Farrell himself answered Shanagan’s knock on the tall oak door. He invited him into a spacious parlor with a large stone fireplace, leather sofas and chairs. “Surprised you’d leave your place on a Saturday night,” Farrell said, closing the door.
    â€œLassiter’s back.”
    Farrell’s head came up. He had been pouring them whiskey. He spilled some. “Lassiter back? Back where?” Farrell’s voice was hoarse. A sudden sheen of moisture was at the hairline.
    â€œHere in town. At my place tonight.”
    Shanagan told how he had been behind his bar, close enough to overhear Bert Oliver accuse a bearded man of being Lassiter.
    Farrell was beginning to calm down. They sat and sipped good whiskey in silence.
    Finally Farrell said, “I think you’re mistaken. When Oliver gets a gut full of whiskey he doesn’t even know where he is, let alone recognize anyone.”
    â€œYou oughta know that,” Shanagan said with his glass to his lips. “The way you slickered him in my place.”
    â€œThe game was honest,” Farrell said stiffly. “Oliver’s just not much of a card player.”
    â€œYou had your friend Vance Vanderson feed you extra aces. . . .”
    â€œThat’s the same as calling me a card cheat.” Shanagan waved both hands defensively. “I’ve done plenty of it myself, Farrell. I admire the way you work. I admire your nerve.”
    Farrell smoothed the waves in his dark red hair. “Why are you telling me all this?” he demanded softly.
    â€œBecause I’d like us to work together. Me keeping my ears open in the saloon. Like I did tonight.”
    â€œWell, you’re wrong about Lassiter.”
    â€œYou’ll find out I’m right. I’ll bank on it.”
    â€œI saw Lassiter buried. The day of his funeral my friends and I celebrated by drinking whiskey and running plenty of water onto his grave. If you know what I mean.”
    â€œSomebody else got buried in his place, then.”
    Farrell rubbed his classic jaw, then said thoughtfully, “Dutch Holzer disappeared and Kiley always claimed he ran out with the money I’d paid them for . . . Well, never mind