Free A Grave for Lassiter by Loren Zane Grey Page B

what I paid them to do. But it’s sheer nonsense to claim Lassiter has returned from the dead.”
    â€œI’ll bet you a hundred that I’m right.”
    â€œI’ll take that wager.” They shook hands on it.
    Suddenly there was a pound of hoofbeats in the yard, then heavy boots thundered on veranda steps. It was Pete Bromley, Farrell’s segundo; he hadn’t gotten around to hiring a foreman yet.
    â€œJust figured you oughta know about Barney Cole. . . .”
    â€œCalm down, for crissakes. What about him?” They stood in the doorway together.
    Bromely explained that he and Cole were on their way back to the ranch. “I seen somebody lightin’ matches in the graveyard.” Bromely went on to say that he told Cole to go and see who was lighting matches. “Barney did like I said, but this fella who said he was a Mex started shootin’. I got the hell out, not knowin’ how many friends the Mex might have with him. I waited till the moon got real strong. I went back an’ I found Barney dead.”
    â€œSo some Mex drifter shot him. Look, I have a very important appointment . . . with a lady and I . . .”
    â€œWhen I got to Shanagan’s lookin’ for you, Sam the barber was there. He swears to gawd he just shaved off Lassiter’s beard. Sam recognized him, but was scared white till Lassiter left.”
    Shanagan laughed. “Farrell, looks like you owe me a hundred.”
    Farrell ignored him. With a stiff face, he drew Bromley aside and whispered in his ear. He finished with, “And tell the lady I’m sorry for being late. I’ll be there in an hour.”
    â€œWhat then, boss?”
    â€œGet back to the ranch. See that the boys are ready to ride at a moment’s notice. I may need them.”
    When Bromley had gone, Farrell got into a buggy that had been left at the side of the house. He and Shanagan started toward the saloon, the chestnut in the shafts prancing smartly. Stars shone brightly through trees that bordered the street.
    â€œWith Lassiter’s guts,” Farrell said angrily, “he just might show up again at your place tonight.”
    â€œI’ll be at your back, just in case.”
    Farrell turned in the buggy seat, staring at Shanagan’s rugged profile in the glow of night lanterns from the stable entrance they were passing. “You do that, Shanagan.”
    â€œCome to think of it, you don’t owe me that hundred dollars,” Shanagan said smoothly when they were nearing his saloon and could see the knots of excited men along the street and occasionally hear a repeated name.
Lassiter!
“Seems like we’re in this together, Farrell. An’ one partner shouldn’t owe the other.”
    Farrell was getting out of the buggy and taking long-legged strides toward the saloon. “You’re a slick one, Shanagan. You moved right in without me hardly noticing.”
    â€œTonight gave me the chance,” Shanagan said with a tight grin.
    â€œI hope to Christ he shows up tonight. I’d like to finish the dirty business before there’s another sunrise.”
    After three hours in the saloon, Farrell knew no more than he had before. Men shouted questions that he couldn’t answer. Speculation was rife as to where Lassiter had been all this time. Miegs, the undertaker, drank more than usual and still insisted he had buried the real Lassiter. This new one was an imposter.
    It was after midnight before Farrell reached Letitia Clayfield’s house and the widow refused him admittance. Even the following morning she had her nose in the air while waiting to board the eastbound stage. He had lost his chance to have her appoint him manager of her business holdings in Bluegate. In time, with most of a continent separating them, these would have come under his complete control.
    â€œIn the years I was married to Donald Clayfield,” said the comely widow, as she gathered skirts to