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bashed in his face. He was wearing his belt so I knew for sure it was him.”
    â€œWhat happened to the two men?” Melody asked tensely.
    â€œI kept up such a stream of gunfire they decided to run for it.”
    Dad Hornbeck, who had come to stand at Melody’s side looked skeptical. “You said Lassiter got scared and ran off and
left
you?”
    â€œHe certainly did,” Vanderson said, with a sad shake of his head. “And I’d heard such stories about bravery. He certainly fooled my father. And me. And I expect Melody.”
    â€œIt don’t sound to me like Lassiter,” Hornbeck said firmly.
    â€œWell, it does to me,” Melody countered. “From all the things I’ve heard about the man.
    Hornbeck’s wrinkled face reflected complete surprise.
    Vanderson smiled at Melody. “I guess it’s up to us to run the company till my dad gets back on his feet.”
    Melody frowned at “dad.” Always before Vance had referred to him as Herm.
    Melody learned that Lassiter’s funeral was to be within two days. Kane Farrell had sent some men into the mountains, so she learned, to return the body for burial. She wondered how Farrell had known where to find the body, but didn’t give it more than passing thought.
    Melody attended the services out of courtesy. Despite the man’s unsavory reputation, there was no denying his association with her uncles.
    There was quite a turnout for the funeral. One thing puzzled her. Many of those attending the ceremony seemed choked with grief at what they termed the death of a fine man. Only a rather small group, she realized, seemed pleased at Lassiter’s passing. Among them was Kane Farrell.
    She lingered while answering questions concerning the health of her Uncle Herm, who was recovering from his leg wound many miles to the south. When the crowd began to thin, she noticed Farrell walk over to the fresh mound of earth and spit on Lassiter’s grave. To her it was obscene, no matter what Lassiter might have been in life.
    A greater obscenity occurred after dark when half-drunk cowhands on their way out to the Twin Horn ranch stopped by the graveyard to “run a little water where they got the bastard planted.”
    In the passing weeks, fall crawled into winter’s ice and many of the high passes were blocked by heavy drifts. Even when spring was finally only a breath away, the snows still clung.
    During that time, the fortunes of Northguard Freight Company, which had been on shaky ground, deteriorated badly.

Chapter Six
    Nearly three hundred miles to the south a man with a full beard tried out his gun, firing at bottles and cans.
    â€œThis time you hit every one of them!” cried a blackeyed girl. She clapped her hands. “You are well at last.”
    â€œAlmost . . . thanks to you.”
    â€œNow you shave off the beard so I can feel your soft cheek against mine?”
    â€œI’m supposed to be dead, so I heard. I want to stay that way a little longer. The beard stays.”
    He had felt the gun kick against his hand, but it was a good feeling. For two weeks now he had been practicing his draw and his marksmanship. Sometimes Roma brought lunch and he’d shoot and then they’d eat and he’d shoot some more.
    That night as usual it was hard to sleep because memories like jagged glass filled his mind. Memories of the mine tunnel, of the terrible pain in his back, chunks of rock smashing to the floor from walls and ceiling.
    He remembered falling from his horse, left foot wedged in the stirrup. He remembered a girl saying, “We can’t go off and leave him here.”
    â€œWe’ll pull his foot out of the stirrup and carry him to the trees. There he can die in peace. He’s finished.”
    It was a male voice, cultured, middle-aged.
    â€œDoc, we can’t let him die!” The girl again, sounding tearful.
    â€œAs an expert in the matter of bullet wounds, I can