Lassiter Tough (5 page)

But by then, some of the Diamond Eight riders had come up and were cursing the big bull for what he had done to their camp. Brad Sanlee cantered in, saw that Lassiter had the fifteen-hundred pound ladino in hand and gave a jerk of his head in approval.

“See you got the bastard!” Sanlee shouted with a great show of white teeth through his beard.

Lassiter gestured at the woman, really a girl, who stood trembling beside the mound of canvas. “She was likely scared half to death when he got loose,” Lassiter said, wondering at the man's reaction.

Sanlee didn't even bother to look at her, but his eyes, with their peculiar shade of gray, seemed to darken. “She's used to trouble, that one.” He spoke so coldly as if to imply she was a nonentity, not to be discussed.

Sanlee shouted at two of his men to straighten up the scattered bedrolls but made no mention of her tent. She had turned her back and was trying to straighten out the tangle of damp canvas. No one offered to give her a hand. Anger shot through Lassiter at such indifference—the reflection of the attitude of a tough crew to a tough ranch owner, Lassiter supposed. And although he felt at home around such men, one thing he could not tolerate was to see that toughness turned on the weak and defenseless, or to demean a woman as was the case at the Diamond Eight roundup camp.

By then the bull was on its feet. Some of the Diamond Eight riders were herding it in the direction of the holding ground.

Lassiter rewound his catch rope, hooked it over the saddle horn and dismounted. At the moment, he didn't give much of a damn who might be watching him, but he wasn't going to stand by and let her try to erect the fallen tent by herself. Night was coming on and she'd have no shelter.

She was pulling forlornly at the pile of canvas when he came up behind her.

“Canvas takes on a lot of weight when it's wet,” he said, pushing her gently aside. “Let me.”

Her dark eyes flashed to his face and she brushed aside a sheaf of black hair that had fallen across her cheek.

“You shouldn't,” she whispered tensely, glancing at Sanlee's broad back just disappearing in the brush some distance away.

“You asked me for help,” Lassiter reminded her as he lifted a ridge pole and the canvas.

“But I didn't,” she protested.

“I read it plain as day. Please help me.”

She shrugged and said, “Perhaps I did. I was upset.” She stood aside, arms folded, her teeth clamped so that he could see the neat white row they made—not a smile, but a grimace.

Thirty yards away a gray-bearded man hunched over the cook fire was watching him intently. He was the only crew member in camp. Sanlee and the others had returned to the business of roundup.

It took some twisting and stretching, but finally Lassiter got the girl's tent smoothed out. Soon he was grunting as he lifted the ridge pole with the full weight of canvas on it. When he had the tent righted, he went around it hammering in stakes with a flat rock.

“Thank you,” the girl said without looking at him. She dropped to her knees and crawled into the tent. She lowered the flaps for privacy.

Lassiter led his horse over to the cook fire. The gray-bearded man was stirring the contents of a pot simmering on the fire. He had picked up the pots and pans scattered about by the raging bull.

“First time I ever heard of a woman at roundup camp,” Lassiter said tentatively.

The old man put down a large spoon. His eyes were bright in a seamed face. He jerked at the brim
of an old slouch hat and peered into the pot of beans and beef. Then he threw a few sticks of wood on the fire, which instantly burst into flame. A fresh column of smoke was pumped into the sky where it flattened out under the overcast.

“Brad Sanlee seen what you done,” the old man said, not looking up. “He won't like it worth a damn.”

“Not even you figured to give her a hand with that tent.”

“I lived as long as I have by knowin' which side of the creek to wet my feet in.”

“Just who is she, anyway?”

The old man limped over to the chuck wagon as if to indicate he'd said all he intended to on the subject.

Lassiter looked back at the tent. There was no sign of the girl.

Then he was back at the holding grounds with its mass of cattle, the branding fires, the shouting amidst sounds of pain and rage from the animals. Although it seemed chaotic with men running about, calves squealing, it was organized. Every man knew his job and did it.

Soon most of Lassiter's slim crew were drifting in for the evening meal. Others were helping guard the herd to keep it from stampeding. With nearly four thousand head of nervous cattle, it would take only a minor disturbance to set them into a panic run.

As Lassiter slumped wearily to the ground, he thought of the girl. She was pretty enough even in an old shirt and boy's breeches, her attire for the day. What would she be like with her hair put up and wearing a clean dress? He thought about it. That she was Sanlee's prisoner, one way or another, was evident. He thought of the last war that had
been fought to free slaves. Apparently, the message hadn't as yet reached Sanlee. Lassiter's mouth hardened as he recalled her strained face when mouthing her plea for help.

Suddenly, he was striding toward his horse.

“Time to eat, Lassiter,” Luis Herrera called to him from the shadows.

“Be back in a few minutes.”

Herrera gave a worried tug at his silky black mustache. “Where you headin', anyhow?” Herrera asked.

“Figure to borrow some coffee beans.”

“Hell, we got plenty,” Rudy Ruiz sang out, who doubled as a cook. But Lassiter was already riding away.

At the Diamond Eight camp, the men were in various positions on the ground, some sitting cross-legged, others leaning against tree trunks or a wheel of the chuck wagon. Each man had a tin plate of food in his lap.

An ominous silence fell over the crew as an angry Lassiter rode into camp. Doug Krinkle nudged Shorty Doane, who still wore a dirty bandage around the head Lassiter had struck with his gun barrel. They looked over at Brad Sanlee, who sat alone, wolfing food from a plate that rested on his uplifted knees.

Sanlee's large head came up at sight of Lassiter and his bearded jaws stopped chewing the tough beef.

Lassiter's glance at the tent was not lost on Sanlee. The flaps were still down. Lassiter wondered if she'd had anything to eat.

The old cook, Tim Marshal, had just finished ladling a plateful of beef and beans for himself. He sat down on the ground as Lassiter reined in nearby.
“You got an almighty nerve comin' over here like this,” the old man hissed. “You lose somethin' over here today?”

“Came to borrow some coffee beans,” Lassiter said roughly, his eyes still on Sanlee some distance away.

Instantly, Sanlee became the jovial ranch owner. He beamed across the shadowed camp at Lassiter. “How come your cook didn't come to do the borrowin'? A foreman sure don't do it, Lassiter. Mine sure wouldn't, if I had one. But maybe Rep Chandler hired himself a different breed. You think that might be it, Lassiter?” He grinned, his teeth gleaming through the beard. Some of his crew wore tense smiles. Others seemed uneasy. The agreement among the five ranchers for roundup was that there was to be no trouble of a personal nature for the duration. There was time enough to settle grievances afterward. Too much time had been lost in the past, too many men injured, to put up with violence any longer when they were working cattle. The agreement had been drawn up by Marcus Kilhaven and the others had signed it.

In the uncomfortable silence, Lassiter was sure he saw one of the tent flaps move slightly. Was he under observation by the dark-haired girl?

Brad Sanlee lounged on the ground some four feet from the front of the tent, his long legs now outstretched, his back resting against the trunk of a sturdy mesquite. Lassiter skirted the semicircle of cowhands. Their knives and forks scraping the tin plates was a dull metallic sound in the twilight. Some of them were slurping the last spoonful of watery beans. But all eyes were on Lassiter as he rode over to where Sanlee was eating. Lassiter dismounted.

“Rep Chandler hired himself a foreman,” Lassiter
said quietly. “And I'm it. But I used the coffee beans as an excuse. I wanted to have a talk.”

He dropped the reins of his horse on the damp ground, his gaze boring into the gray eyes across from him. He could end it now, call Sanlee on the death of Vince Tevis and get it over with. Or should he hold his cards close to the vest and play each hand as it was dealt? He decided on the latter choice.

With a fierce grin, Sanlee jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the tent. “You wanta know about
her.
That's why you come.”

“You read my mind,” Lassiter said.

“Ever hear what happened to the cat that was curious?”

Lassiter's smile was cold. “This is some different.”

“You're a cool one, Lassiter.” Sanlee gave a short laugh. “Guess I'll believe it next time somebody says you got ice water in your veins instead of hot blood.”

“I've got a strong hunch she's being held here. ‘Against her will' is the way it's usually put.” There it was, more words than he had intended to use. But the whole damn thing was getting away from him—mistreatment of the girl and the cold-blooded killing of Vince Tevis cracked the dam of his resolve.

Sanlee seemed to think about it. He cocked his head at Lassiter, who stood a few feet away, hands at his sides, feet widespread, nothing to read on the dark features. Sanlee used the last biscuit to mop up what remained of his supper. His strong jaws chomped on stringy beef. Then he tossed his plate aside, where it lay shining dully in a clump of weeds. As he wiped his mouth with the back of the left hand, his right hand darted to his belt. The move
was as quick as that of a striking rattler. He had a gun half-drawn, then noticed that Lassiter's .44 was already in hand. The metallic sound as it was cocked seemed almost as explosive in the silent camp as a thunderclap.

“I shoulda remembered you got speed along with your nerve.” Sanlee chuckled as he let his gun slide back into the holster.

The nearest man, some thirty feet away, sat rigidly in the twilight, his mouth open. Beyond him the rest of the crew stared. The old cook, Tim Marshal, on hands and knees, was reaching out for a rifle on the ground.

Sanlee caught the movement from a corner of his eye. “Easy, Tim,” he called over to the cook. “We got a sidewinder in camp. Let's step real careful.”

The old man sank back to the ground and wrapped his bony arms around his knees.

“Put away your gun, Lassiter,” Sanlee said jovially. “You pullin' it so free an' easy is liable one day to get you in a pile of trouble.”

“Not so far.” Lassiter holstered his .44. For a minute he had let his temper get away from him, but now it was checked once again. There would come a day when everything would fall into place. And he would know that it was time to settle everything with this hulking killer sitting hunched across from him in the deepening shadows.

Lassiter accepted Sanlee's invitation to “set an' talk.” He sank to his knees in a position where he could keep an eye on the crew. There were scraping sounds of sand on tin as they cleaned their plates. But as they worked at the daily chore, their eyes flicked to Lassiter.

“Didn't Chandler tell you about that gal in the
tent?” Sanlee asked, that hard smile still on his bearded face.

“Haven't seen Rep since roundup started.”

“Then I'll tell you.” Sanlee's voice lowered so that not even the nearest man could have overheard. “Millie's my kid sister. You believe that?”

“If you say so.”

“Since my pa's been gone, I done my damnedest to keep her in hand. Most of the time I do. But about three weeks ago she run off.” Sanlee's voice hardened but he failed to notice the change that had come over Lassiter's face. “She run off with a no-good bastard. . . .” Sanlee didn't go on with it.

Lassiter, his heart hammering, vowed not to let himself come unraveled as memories of that tragic evening in New Mexico came flooding back.

“This fella she ran off with,” Lassiter managed to say, “she figured to marry him?”

Sanlee looked up, his eyes ugly. “I got my own idea on who she's gonna marry. You understand, Lassiter?”

“Looks like she's got nothing to say about it.”

“Not one damn solitary thing. I aim to look after my little sister an' see that she ties up with a solid citizen of Texas. Millie's gonna marry your boss.”

“Rep Chandler?” Lassiter asked in genuine surprise. He was remembering how young the girl had seemed. At least he now knew her name. “Guess it's your business,” he went on carefully, “but it seems to me kinda like tryin' to squeeze together May and December.”

“She needs an older fella like Rep to tame her.”

“I see. . . .”

“Once my sister an' Rep are harnessed, the two outfits will be one, you might say. His an' mine.”

Lassiter couldn't help a short laugh. “So that's it. Use your sister to get your hands on Chandler's ranch.”

Sanlee seemed to take no offense, and said, “Had the idea for quite a spell. Kinda took your breath away, eh?” the rancher said with sly amusement. He plucked a green weed and stuck a stem into a corner of his bearded mouth. “Women are bought an' sold the same as slaves. You understand, Lassiter?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, let me explain. I got somethin' Rep Chandler wants. He wants a hot-blooded young female an' Millie's all of that from what I been hearin' since she was fourteen or thereabouts. An' Chandler's got somethin' I want. His ranch added to mine will give me a sizeable chunk of the brasada.”

“That figures,” Lassiter said evenly. “What if I told Rep of your plans?”

“Go ahead. His heart's pumpin' so hard for my little sister he wouldn't even hear you.” Sanlee leaned forward. “That's why I got Millie out here where I can keep an eye on her. You understand?”