Lassiter Tough (10 page)

“Brad, you had no right!” It was Millie's stricken voice. But in the uproar that followed, the rest of what she said was lost. Because Doane was charging again, coming with the force of a wild-eyed ladino straight out of the brush, both fists swinging. Still
Lassiter kept out of his reach, the blows whistling ominously just short of his nose, chin or mouth.

But suddenly Lassiter knew it was time to go on the offensive, if ever. Abruptly he whipped aside to send a left smashing into Doane's ribs. The big man, charging straight ahead, lost a step and his knees almost folded.

“A sample of what you gave me,” Lassiter said through his teeth, and measured Doane's wide face. His right opened up a cheekbone. As blood spurted, his left found Doane flush on the mouth. Doane's head snapped back, surprise replacing a gloating triumph.

It was a late-nineteenth-century version of David and Goliath played before over a hundred spectators gathered in the yard, every man shouting, the women screaming. Several times the crowd was forced to back hurriedly when the combatants reeled from the cleared area.

When Lassiter paused for breath, his fists aching from hammering at the big man, he saw that his opponent's face was smeared with blood. But Lassiter had taken his own punishment. There was a sharp pain in his jaw and again it was hard to draw a deep breath.

Doane was coming on relentlessly when Lassiter brought him to his toes with a vicious uppercut. As Doane wavered, Lassiter heard a shouted warning at his back. And on the heels of it something crashed into his right shoulder.

“A bottle!” a man cried. “Somebody throwed a bottle!”

Brad Sanlee shouted indignantly, “We'll have none of that!” But he was grinning and nodded at
the burly Joe Tige, who was edging back into the crowd. An empty whiskey bottle went bouncing across the yard, glittering in the harsh sunlight.

The pain came after the brutal impact of the bottle. Lassiter lurched and his right arm collapsed, lifeless as a strip of rolled-up carpet. With the useless arm dangling, completely numbed, Lassiter fought off the attacker with his left.

When Doane took a moment to smear a forearm across his bloodied face, Lassiter buried a left in the pit of his stomach. Doane lurched, both hands reaching out to clasp the tops of Lassiter's shoulders. Doane's weight was too much. Lassiter found himself slammed to the ground. In desperation, he tried to squirm out from under the great body that pinned him to earth. But he was trapped by two hundred and thirty-five pounds.

Blood from Doane's smashed nose splattered Lassiter's cheek. Doane was reaching up between their bodies with both hands, trying to get Lassiter by the throat. Before he could be strangled, Lassiter gave a mighty wrench of his body and managed to twist free from under the weight.

With the crowd cheering for him now, Lassiter staggered to his feet. Feeling had begun to return to his right arm. As he backed away from Doane, who was struggling up from the ground, he swung his arm in circles to restore the circulation. At last, knowing he had regained control of it, he began to hammer mercilessly at Doane's jaw and midriff. From a corner of his eye, he glimpsed a look of agony on Millie's sweet face. She stood with a small fist pressed against her lips.

And as Doane staggered and Lassiter swung
around to meet him head on, he saw Isobel Hartney at the edge of the noisy crowd. Her eyes were unusually wide with excitement, her red lips open.

Another blow from behind, this one just below the shoulder blades, bent Lassiter almost double. As his upper body whipped downward, he was met by Doane's uppercut—a blow so powerful that he was lifted off his feet and sent crashing to the ground. In his dimmed vision, Lassiter saw another bottle bouncing across the yard.

But, in the roaring from the crowd, he realized more protests were being uttered at the unfairness. And again Brad Sanlee echoed them. But a look of concern that had been growing on his bearded face, as Doane seemed to falter, was replaced by one of relief.

Doane was advancing on the prostrate Lassiter—a giant about to stomp a pygmy. As Doane drew back a booted foot near Lassiter's skull, most everyone felt that it was all over. There were sobbing protests from some of the women to stop it, but no one seemed to hear. Half the crowd screamed encouragement to Lassiter, but the rest seemed mute, frozen by the tragedy they were about to witness.

But at the last minute, Lassiter rose up from the ground. He caught the swinging leg with its boot toe that had been aimed at his temple. He clasped both hands around the leg and leaned on it with all his weight.

Doane screamed in pain and fell heavily on his back. Onlookers screeched. Taking a deep breath, Lassiter scrambled to his feet. Doane was getting up slowly, flexing the right leg that had taken the full weight of Lassiter's body. For a few moments a baffled look settled in what could still be seen of his
eyes in puffy skin rapidly turning purple. Then all at once he seemed to snatch a revival of strength from the dusty air of the yard. He launched himself straight at Lassiter, obviously intending to end it.

“Time's up!” a voice cried. But no one paid any attention to Kilhaven at the table with a large gold watch that indicated the thirty minutes were up. His attempts to get the attention of the crowd were drowned out by a mighty roar. The two combatants stood toe to toe, slashing with fists at face and midsection.

“Stay away from him, amigo!” Herrera yelled to Lassiter.

But Lassiter knew he had to finish it. His knees were wobbly. His arms felt heavy as logs. But still he kept on. Then suddenly he was aware that Doane's blows lacked their former strength.

It was then he stepped back and struck twice at Doane's jaw. But he was dismayed when the big man failed to topple. There was nothing to do but pursue him doggedly. Again Lassiter slammed him on the jaw, then drove a wicked left and right into the softness above the broad belt buckle. A sheet of perspiration was jarred from Doane's lank hair. He lifted his face. He had lost a tooth. The gap showed through smashed lips. His mouth hung open as he staggered and gasped for breath. But Lassiter's uppercut snapped it shut. Doane's teeth slammed together with a click. All of Lassiter's waning strength had gone into that terrific smash to the jaw.

Doane took half a dozen staggering steps, his arms dangling at his sides. Then his eyes, in the mass of purplish flesh, turned upward. He collapsed.

Lassiter reeled away. Shouting men had him by the arms. They were hustling him over to a bench at the nearest of the outdoor tables. He slumped down
when his weary legs gave way. A glass of whiskey was thrust under his nose. But he shook his head.

“Water . . . first,” he gasped.

After drinking what seemed half a bucket from a yard pump, he reached for the glass of whiskey.

Doane's prostrate figure was ringed by the curious. Small boys stared in awe at the fallen gladiator and then at Lassiter on the bench, his long legs out-thrust. One eye was nearly closed. His forehead was deeply gashed. And there was a cut on the point of his chin. He was breathing heavily.

Rep Chandler stood with an arm slung around the slim waist of his bride, looking dazed by it all. The excitement of his wedding, too much whiskey, then the tension of witnessing the monumental brawl between his new foreman and Shorty Doane had about done him in. He was breathing nearly as hard as Lassiter and had to sit down. His face was gray.

Millie looked at him with concern. “You all right, Rep?”

He nodded his head. “Fine, fine,” he mumbled.

Then he levered himself to his feet and limped over to congratulate Lassiter.

Lassiter looked up at the rancher out of hard blue eyes. “Where's Sanlee?” he demanded softly.

“Gone. Him an' his men. Doane's layin' in the wagon that brought Millie.”

“Too bad. I wanted to finish it with Sanlee. . . .”

“You ain't in no shape to stand up to him, Lassiter,” Chandler pointed out. “Your hand's all swollen.”

“Joe Tige's got my gun.”

“Well, was I you, I wouldn't ask him for it,” Chandler said. “I'll give you money to buy another. Tige can be mean.”

Lassiter gave a hard laugh. He stood up and scanned the crowd to look for pinned-up pale hair and green eyes. “Maybe Isobel Hartney's stomach won't turn at sight of my face,” he muttered.

Millie, standing next to him, said, “She went with Brad.” Then Millie added, “Stay away from her. She's poison.”

Millie was looking at him with concern in her eyes, or was it jealousy? In his condition, he couldn't be sure. But in the next instant he negated jealousy. Of course not. Hell, she was a bride and it was her wedding day.

After the historic battle, it was a subdued crowd that partook of the barbecue. Lassiter felt a great need for food and wolfed down two thick slabs of barbecued beef and a pound of beans. After numerous cups of black coffee laced with whiskey, he felt his strength returning.

Making sure no one saw him except Luis Herrera, whom he gave a signal by lifting his chin, he slipped away. Herrera's long dark face was grim as he found Lassiter waiting by the barn, away from the milling crowd.

“What is it, amigo?” he asked tensely.

“I need to borrow a gun. Tige took mine.”

“Wherever you go, I go with you.” The segundo started away, but Lassiter caught him by an arm.

“Just the gun, Luis,” he said, looking into the black eyes.

Herrera blew out his breath, then hurried away. The guests were chattering among themselves near the tables. Dust kicked up during the fight had finally settled. The sky was Texas blue with only a fringe of dumpling clouds. A breeze had come up,
cooling the air and carrying with it aromas from the barbecue pits.

The musicians were playing
El Niño,
and guests were soon pairing off to dance to the lively tune.

Herrera returned with a big .45 under his jacket. Gravely, he handed it over to Lassiter.

“You be careful,” the Mexican hissed in Spanish. “Today the saints were on your shoulder. But perhaps not twice.”

Lassiter smiled, clapped him on the back and went to saddle his horse. But because of his condition, Herrera helped him.

“Don't tell anybody about the gun or that I've gone,” Lassiter warned from the saddle. And Herrera nodded that he understood, but still not liking it. He watched Lassiter take the town road and disappear into evening shadows.

Lassiter kept his black horse to a walk because the jolting punished his already aching body. There was no hurry. If Sanlee was doing what he thought he'd be doing, it would probably continue for most of the night. Faint moonlight turned the brush into ghostly gargoyles.

He wondered if he should give Sanlee time to put on his britches before he called him. Probably. He shouldn't be found bare-assed naked in the vacant lot next to the Hartney Store. It would shock the town ladies who would have been awakened by the late-night pistol fire.

When he finally saw the stark outlines of the store in night shadows, not a light showed downstairs nor in the windows of the second floor. Of course, Isobel Hartney being the modest soul she was wouldn't want lamplight shed on her activities of the night.
He gave a wry grin at the thought. Twisting his lips caused him pain and he swore softly.

He didn't know what color horse Sanlee had ridden away from Box C or whether he had ridden in a wagon. No horses were tied to the store's hitching racks. Of course, if Sanlee intended to spend the night, which he would, then his horse or wagon was no doubt at the livery stable. Over at O'Leary's on the far side of the street, the windows were still yellowed with lamplight. There were four horses at the rack in front.

He rode over and dismounted stiffly, looped the reins over O'Leary's tie rack, then ambled like a drunk through the swinging doors. A cowpuncher was slumped against the bar, his head down, singing nasally about his prairie rose.

The three other patrons were paying no attention, talking among themselves. The bartender this night had a body that reminded Lassiter of a bundle of slats tied with string. At sight of Lassiter coming through the door, his mouth fell open.

“What in hell happened to you?” he sang out.

“Somebody swung open a barn door just as I was goin' in,” Lassiter told him with a laugh.

The singer broke off his song and looked around, as did the other customers. Lassiter stared at the four men, feeling disappointed he was so keyed up, that not a one of them was a Diamond Eight rider. In the strained silence that followed, with the men staring openly at his beaten face, he had two quick whiskeys. Throwing a coin on the bar, he then walked out in his stiff-legged stride.

“Gad, he looked like he just escaped from hell with the devil's pitchfork proddin' his ass,” the bar-keep
breathed. “He had a look in his eye that freezes the gut.”

“I know he froze mine,” said the long-legged singer in dusty range clothes. “Who is he, anyhow?”

“Name of Lassiter. He works for Rep Chandler. There was a weddin' out there today. I wonder what Lassiter's doin' in town?”

“Well, whatever it is,” said one of the drinkers, “I'm sure glad the reason ain't me.”

Lassiter hammered on the rear door of the Hartney Store. “Miss Hartney, tell Sanlee I'll be waitin' for him in the lot next to your store!”

A dead silence followed. A faint breeze was blowing odors from the stable two blocks away. In the distance came a faint yip of coyotes. It woke up somebody's mule and it began to bray.

A window was lifted upstairs and a head with long, wheat-colored hair was thrust out. “Sanlee isn't here,” she said in a loud whisper. “Wait and I'll be right down.”

Two jolts of whiskey at O'Leary's in his condition had hit him hard. In a few minutes the rear door was unbolted. Isobel Hartney, wearing a green wrapper, stared in surprise at the shiny .45 pointed at her stomach.