Lassiter Tough (6 page)

“You put it plain enough.” Lassiter was barely able to conceal his contempt, his outright hatred because of what had happened to his friend up in New Mexico.

Lassiter got to his feet and Sanlee stood up, his big body unwinding slowly, taller than Lassiter by an inch or so. Old Tim Marshal had thrown fresh fuel on the cook fire. Firelight stained the growing darkness and wood smoke stung Lassiter's nostrils. Every eye was on the two big men facing each other in the waning light.

Sanlee spoke in a rush of words for Lassiter's ears only. “I like the way you stand up to a man, Lassiter.
Once Millie marries Rep, I'll hire you on to ramrod the two outfits. . . .”

“I'll be moving along by then. I'm a drifter at heart. . . .”

But Sanlee shook his head stubbornly. “I got me a woman I figure to marry. An' she wants to go out to Frisco for a spell. An' I aim to oblige. But I need a tough man to leave behind while I show Isobel some of the world she's got an itch to see. Don't make up your mind now, Lassiter, but keep it under your hat. We'll talk later.”

Abruptly, Sanlee stalked over to the cook fire, where he picked up a steaming coffeepot from the coals. As Lassiter rode out, he was filling a tin cup.

From the edge of camp, Lassiter glanced over his shoulder at Millie's tent, which could barely be seen now in the darkness. It was close enough to where Sanlee had been sitting for her to have overheard every word. Not only had she been thwarted when she apparently had run off with Vince Tevis, but now her brother was going to use her as a bargaining chip to merge Chandler's Box C with Diamond Eight.

Pity for her plight deepened in him. He was remembering the excitement in Rep Chandler's voice when talking about marrying again. At the time Lassiter had had no idea the middle-aged rancher had his eye on a girl Millie Sanlee's age.

After roundup he'd warn Chandler of Sanlee's intentions toward Box C. Chandler might believe him. On the other hand, his reaction might be the same as it had been when Lassiter mentioned the three names Sanlee had written out.

“Brad was just joshin',” Chandler had said.

Well, Lassiter would finish roundup and drive the
Box C herd to railhead where they would be sold, as per his agreement with Chandler. Then he would do what he could for Millie.

Meanwhile, he'd let Sanlee sweat. On the day he told Chandler he was quitting, he would corner Sanlee and settle up for the death of Vince Tevis.

Then he would be off to new horizons, providing he had his usual gunfighter's luck against Sanlee. Of course, he was under no illusions, knowing that quite possibly one day he would meet a better man.

But he hoped when the gun smoke cleared, Sanlee would be dead. Millie would probably inherit Diamond Eight. At least she'd have that much.

With that settled in his mind, he ate supper and rolled up in his blankets. Sleep didn't come easily and it seemed only an hour had passed before Herrera was shaking him awake to take a turn as nighthawk with the herd.

Two days later, Ad Deverax was back in the Santos country, after a lengthy detour all the way down from Ardon, New Mexico. . . .

That morning Brad Sanlee was called aside by Doug Krinkle. Sanlee had just missed a cast with his rope and was in an ugly mood. His broad, bearded face bore numerous scratches from tangling with a steer in a thicket.

“Deverax is back,” Krinkle said, cupping his hands to shout above the noise of yelling men and pounding cattle.

“Bolin with him?” Sanlee demanded.

“Ad's alone,” Krinkle replied, his heavily freckled face tight with concern.

“If the son of a bitch wants his job back, tell him to try the moon.”

“Ad's got somethin' to tell you. It's important, he claims.”

“Where the hell's he been all this time? Likely layin' up in some
congal
with a chica.”

“He's been in a hospital up at Wheeler City.”

“Hospital?”

“He's shot bad, Brad.” Krinkle gestured at a wagon.

Sanlee scowled, wound his catch rope, then mounted up and rode over to where Deverax was lying in the bed of a ranch wagon.

“What the hell happened to you?” Sanlee asked the tall man who lay on straw in the wagon. Deverax was so thinned down that Sanlee hardly recognized him. Through the dirty, unbuttoned shirt could be seen a pack of stained bandages.

“I know the fella's here,” Deverax gasped. “The one that done it. I seen him here. . . .”

“Done what, for Chris' sakes?”

“Killed Bolin an' put a bullet in me. Leastwise I think Bolin's dead. I rode like hell. He was trailin' me but it rained one night an' I gave him the slip. But I was so bad by then, I had to hunt up a doc. . . .”

“Who the hell you talkin' about, anyhow?”

Krinkle cut in. “He saw Lassiter a while ago. He says it's him.”

Sanlee drew a deep breath.
“Lassiter?”

Deverax nodded weakly. “Doug says it's his name.”

Sanlee jerked his thumb at Krinkle. “Get back to work, Doug.” He didn't want too many details of the New Mexico venture spread about. Deverax and Bolin had been his two most trusted underlings, which was why he had taken them along on the hunt for the runaway Millie.

When Krinkle was gone, Sanlee leaned into the wagon. “Tell me about it, Ad.”

Deverax was so weak he could speak only a few words at a time. “You told me an' . . . Bolin . . . to stay behind . . . an' at full dark to finish off Tevis. . . .
This Lassiter was there by then . . . in the house. . . . I thought Bolin got him sure, but the next thing I knew, Bolin is down an' I'm hit bad. . . .”

“Lassiter,” Sanlee said softly through his teeth. “Then it wasn't a coincidence, his coming to Texas.” Sanlee could speak decent English when he felt like it. “How'd Lassiter find out about me?”

“Tevis, I reckon. Your bullet didn't finish him, remember?”

“You get back to the ranch an' keep your mouth shut, Ad. You hear me?”

Deverax nodded. Then Sanlee shouted at the older ranch hand who had driven Deverax out to the roundup camp. “You get him home, pronto.”

Sanlee stood in the hot spring sunlight, sweating. He thought about Lassiter and all that had happened. Then, with a fierce grin, he mounted up and returned to the roundup.

The next stretch of brush country to be worked for cattle was the most dangerous. A rider had to be constantly alert to the many hazards that could end his life in the flick of an eyelash.

Herrera and most of the vaqueros were mounted on small Spanish ponies. That day they rode into the black brush with its thorns like spiked fingers ready to tear cloth or the flesh of rider or horse. Whenever the vaqueros were riding down an evasive bull or a raging cow with her calf their shouts of “Ai-i-i-i-i!” rang through the heavy undergrowth. Recklessly they rode with ropes tied fast to the saddle horns. The big Chihuahua steers were nimble and smart, with horns that could rip like a saber into the tough hide of horses or impale a man.

Their first casualty was Tony Jerez.

It had been a grueling day in the hot and sticky hell of the Texas jungle. Lassiter had just coiled his rope for a return to the fray. He had helped bring in a half-dozen mavericks and waited until the brands were parceled out, one for each ranch. When he started riding after a big cow with her calf he heard a bellowing to his right and a great crashing in the brush. He reined in and saw a red-eyed ladino bulling his way through the thicket like a loaded, runaway freight wagon. A noose was anchored over the great spread of horns. Behind the roaring beast pounded Tony Jerez, trying to keep up because the other end of the rope was tied to his saddle horn. Jerez lost his sombrero to the brush and his long hair streamed like a black mane in the wind.

“Use your knife!” Lassiter shouted to him. “Cut the bastard loose!”

But Jerez either didn't hear him above the wild crashing in the brush or was determined to prove his manhood and not accept defeat by a bull, no matter how big or ferocious. He dug in his Chihuahua spurs and the wild-eyed pony leaped ahead. Its coat was damp with sweat and in places the winter hair had been scraped off by the lethal brush. Again Lassiter yelled advice, which Jerez chose to ignore. His white teeth gleamed in his dark face, reminding Lassiter of miniature tombstones. A chill ran down his spine at the thought.

Swearing under his breath, Lassiter drew his rifle and tried to pump a bullet into the skull of the maddened ladino. But at the last moment the big animal swerved, and it and the pursuing vaquero disappeared into the stifling ocean of brush.

As Lassiter pounded after them, he saw that Jerez was maneuvering the ladino toward the holding
ground. He saw the vaquero pull hard on his reins in an attempt to slow the crazed animal. The Spanish pony dug in its heels but there was no halting the steer. It was shaking its head, trying to rid itself of the noose that had trapped its horns. It pounded across the clearing. Branders yelled warnings and leaped back from their fires.

The ladino trampled one of the fires, scattering embers. Other riders reined in to stare at what could be a potential tragedy. Jerez could have freed himself of his mistake by shooting the savage bull. And mistake it had been—a rope aimed for a hind leg had instead settled over the horns. Jerez had missed his cast and now seemed determined to bring his quarry to bay.

But as the pony settled its weight, the rope stretched taut as a banjo string, the ladino suddenly changed directions. With foam dripping from its nostrils and jaws, it charged directly at the pony. One horn tip splintered the breastbone. The Chihuahua steer quickly withdrew from the floundering horse and turned on its rider, who had flung himself to the ground, landing lightly on his feet. Now Jerez was waving his arms, trying to confuse the beast and get it tangled up in the brush by the rope stretched from steer horns to the saddle of the downed pony.

Again Lassiter fired. His bullet nicked a horn. By then the steer had lunged at Jerez and Lassiter had to spin his horse to get out of the way. When he looked back over his shoulder he saw to his horror that Jerez was running, and that there was still plenty of slack in the rope now between the charging beast and the dying horse. It caught Jerez at the edge of the clearing. With a great upsweep of its
horn, Jerez was lifted off the ground and hurled headfirst into the thick trunk of a mesquite. Even above the pounding hooves was the terrible sound of a neck bone snapping.

Before the steer could turn and trample the body of its enemy, Lassiter was finally able to place a bullet between its maddened eyes. The big steer took a couple of wobbly steps, then crashed to earth.

Lassiter was just dismounting when a bullet whipped past his ear, followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. He spun in time to see Doug Krinkle lowering his weapon.

“I figured to put a bullet in that big Chihuahua,” the freckled Diamond Eight rider called. “But I see you got him.”

Krinkle rode away.

Lassiter was hot with rage.

“One of these days, Sanlee,” Lassiter said softly in his anger.

With the aroma of yellow huisache blossoms lacing the air, they buried Jerez. There he would lie for all eternity in an unmarked grave.

That evening the Box C crew ate supper in silence, each man wondering—not fearfully but realistically—if tomorrow he might be the next one buried. They had a code of living hard and, if it came time, to die hard. It was agreed among them that it was better for a man to lose his life than his pride. Jerez had attempted to erase a mistake by heroically challenging the great steer. He had lost the gamble. It was as simple as that.

Sanlee came tramping up, wiping his large bearded face with a bandanna. “That crazy Mex,” he said to Lassiter. “More bone in his head than sense. It's why I never hire one of the bastards.”

Lassiter often wondered what would have happened had not Sanlee turned abruptly on his heel and walked away. It was much later before Lassiter could calm down after the insult to the dead rider.

Several times during the night, Lassiter thought about Sanlee's proposition to make him ramrod of Diamond Eight and Box C. Each time it crossed his mind, he smiled coldly. His working for Brad Sanlee would be the longest day in Texas history. He'd bide his time before calling Sanlee for the murder of Vince Tevis. His old friend was no doubt a misguided Lothario who had been carried away by Millie Sanlee's fetching figure and those intense black eyes.

Two days later Rep Chandler appeared at roundup camp in a hack wagon. With his splinted leg, it was awkward for him to get out of the small wagon.

Lassiter had just ridden in with a dozen steers that he and his men had rousted from a tornillo thicket. Lassiter rode over and dismounted. Chandler offered his hand, which Lassiter shook. Then the rancher, using a cane, limped over to a large flat rock next to a fernlike growth of juajuillo and sat down. He removed his hat. Perspiration dampened his sparse brown hair. “I told Brad Sanlee I never had a foreman as good as you,” Chandler said.

Lassiter laughed. “What'd he say to that?”

“He said if that's what I wanted, that's the way it'd be.”

Lassiter shook his head.

“You seem skeptical,” Chandler said with a frown.

“I am.”

“Sanlee will leave you alone—believe me on that. . . .”

“I'm not afraid of him.”

“That's what I like about you, Lassiter—your toughness. He'll leave you alone because I'll be marryin' his sister.”

“She's agreeable, I suppose,” Lassiter said, watching the rancher's face.

Chandler rubbed his jaw. “I don't rightly know, to tell the truth. But it makes no mind whether she is or not.”

Lassiter couldn't forget Millie's frightened face. “She oughta have a say about who she marries.”

“I reckon you don't know how things are done down here.”