Lassiter Tough (7 page)

“One thing I do know is right from wrong!”

But Chandler was talking about his first wife and not even listening to Lassiter. “When me an' my first wife was married, she didn't like me worth a damn. She was fourteen an' I was four years older. But my pa said marry her. Her pa said the same to her. It worked out purty good, considerin'. Twenty-eight years later she up an' got a sickness an' died on me. So it'll be the same with me an' Millie.”

“Things have changed since you got married the first time.”

“I aim to take Millie over to Austin, then go up to New York to see them tall buildings they got there. Hell, I'm over hatin' the blue bellies. The war's long over.” He leaned over to give Lassiter a friendly slap on the arm. “I'm countin' on you to run things while I'm gone.”

“You and Sanlee.”

“What'd you mean by that?”

“Nothing. The hell with it. But as soon as roundup's over and the cows sold, I'll be gettin' an itch to see what's on the yonder side of the mountain.”

“Ain't no mountain around here.”

Lassiter gave him a hard smile. “Just a way of putting things. But I stay in a place just so long, then I've got to push on.”

“You can't quit on me. Hell, I . . .”

“You've got a good man in Luis Herrera.”

Chandler fidgeted on the flat rock. Men were drifting in and out of camp. Some helped themselves to coffee from the big pot on the coals of the cook fire. Others swapped a jaded horse for a fresh one.

“I already let Luis get up the ladder farther than I should, likely,” Chandler said.

“He's segundo. Let him go up a step. Why not, for Chris' sakes?”

“It just ain't done—not around here it ain't, anyhow.”

Lassiter guessed the problem. Chandler stubbornly refused to advance a good man like Herrera because it was the local custom to have only Anglos in positions of authority. Memories of the Alamo, it seemed, still clouded some Texas minds. One thing Lassiter couldn't abide was injustice, whether to a girl like Millie Sanlee or a man like Luis Herrera.

“You got any idea why Sanlee is trying to force his sister to marry you?” he demanded, anger spilling over.

“Now see here . . .”

It was as far as Chandler got because Lassiter unloaded, telling him of Sanlee's plans. “To move in on you and eventually take over,” he finished.

“Just how the hell do you know that, Lassiter?”

“He told me.”

Chandler studied him a moment, then began to laugh. “Brad was just joshin' you. I watched that boy grow up. Me an' his daddy was friends. . . .”

“My strong hunch is that Sanlee meant every word.”

“What if he did?” Chandler jerked at an end of his mustache. “With you as my ramrod, he won't make a move against me.” Chandler grunted and got to his feet. “I'm meetin' with Millie in town tomorrow at noon at the Hartney Store. I better get home an' rest up my leg.” He gave a weak grin and limped with his cane to the hack wagon.

Yesterday, Millie had been allowed to go home, Lassiter had learned from others, and put in the charge of a dour housekeeper named Elva Dowd. He wanted to see her and thought about tomorrow at noon in Santos. Just thinking of seeing her again pumped excitement through his veins. . . .

“You had your chance an' you wasted a shot into mesquite instead of Lassiter's hard head.” Sanlee was standing next to Doug Krinkle at one end of O'Leary's bar. He had ordered Krinkle to go along when he escorted Millie back to the home place. Elva Dowd, big-armed and toothy, would keep a subdued Millie in hand.

“I'll have another chance at Lassiter,” Krinkle said and gave a hitch at his gun belt.

“That son of a bitch is just plain lucky. Deverax an' Bolin shootin' at him in a two-by-four shack an' by God, both of 'em missin' the bastard. Then Lassiter puts a bullet in Deverax an' kills Bolin.”

“Luck's like sand in an hourglass. It runs just so long.”

“Somebody told you that. You never thought it up by yourself.”

“I read it somewhere,” Krinkle admitted. It rankled that he'd had Lassiter right in his rifle sight. And in all the confusion of the vaquero getting
killed and the yelling, he could have gotten away with it. But at the last minute Lassiter had turned his head. Talk about luck. Then Lassiter had given him a cold stare that chilled his backbone.

“I'll have to get Lassiter before he gets me,” Krinkle said after a minute. He swished some whiskey around in his glass, then drained it. “He knows damn well I was tryin' for him at roundup.”

“Well, for Chris' sakes, next time make sure of him.”

“Maybe you oughta make a try for him yourself, Brad,” Krinkle suggested slyly, but he was ready to duck in case Sanlee swung his hand at him, which he was known to do when his temper exploded. But today Sanlee accepted it with a tight grin.

“If it comes to the point where fellas I pay to do a job can't get it done, then I'll face up to the bastard. It'll be the end of the legend of Lassiter. I'll blow him outta his boots.”

“You can do it, Brad.”

“I'm damn sure of that. But meanwhile . . .” Sanlee gave Krinkle a hard look.

“Yeah, yeah, I'll figure somethin' out.”

“
Do
it!” Sanlee snapped. “I pay good money for you an' Doane to run risks, which you two didn't earn the day you tried to corral him on the east road.”

Memory of the suddenness of Lassiter's attack that day caused Krinkle's freckled face to redden. And to have had Isobel Hartney witness the humiliation was almost too much.

“Hey, Doug, you ol' son of a bitch you!”

Krinkle swung around at the sound of a familiar voice. “Cuz!” he cried, laughing, and he and the tall, scar-faced man gave each other the
abrazo.
It was
Krinkle's cousin, Sam Busher. Krinkle broke out of the embrace of his kin and introduced him to Sanlee, who acknowledged it with a jerk of his head. He was eyeing Busher's gun in a cut-down holster. Then he studied the scars on his round face. There were four scars, two of them deep.

“Some gal use a knife when you had your britches off?” Sanlee asked thinly, referring to the scars.

“Nope,” Busher said. “I had a fair-sized poke on me. Four hombres held me while a fifth used his blade.”

“Did they get your poke?”

“Yeah. But later I got them and the money they was carryin'.”

“All five of 'em?” Sanlee was interested and put his back to the bar, elbows hooked over the lip.

“All five,” Busher admitted modestly. “An' what they had on 'em was a sight more'n they took off me.”

“Did the law ever get after you for it?”

“Not for that. A few other things, though.” Busher's smile was hard. His clothing was worn and dusty as if he'd traveled hard and far. Sanlee matched his grin, then nudged Krinkle.

“I figure you an' your cuz just might handle Lassiter.”

“Point him out,” Busher said. “I'll handle him alone.”

Sanlee shook his head. “When it happens, I want Krinkle to face up to him. An' I want you at Lassiter's back. He's fast an' I don't want any slip-ups. I saw him work once an' I know.”

“I rode down this way figurin' maybe Doug could point me to a job. Looks like I got one. How's the pay?”

“Ask your cuz.”

Busher turned inquiringly to Krinkle, who said, “Pay's good.”

“Damned good,” Sanlee added, “if you're successful, that is.” He let it hang there while Busher thought it over, then nodded. Sanlee called to O'Leary for a clean glass, then poured whiskey from his bottle for the three of them.

“I want you an' Doug to stick with me wherever I go,” Sanlee said quietly when O'Leary had departed. “Not right with me, you understand, but close enough. So I can give you a signal in a big hurry.”

“You want this Lassiter real bad,” Busher said with a smile.

“On a dark night I want to be able to stomp on his grave an' bellow at the moon.”

Busher and Krinkle laughed.

Then Busher looked Sanlee in the eye. “How much pay, in dollars, not talk?”

“One thousand each.”

“The sooner you give us that signal, the sooner I can start spendin' the money,” Busher said, a pleased look on his scarred face.

Sanlee nodded, feeling confident that Lassiter was as good as dead.

The following day, Lassiter glanced at the sky. It was mid-morning, and he could make Santos well before noon. He had a hunch that Millie would be early for her meeting with Chandler. He told Herrera to take over for him and rode in the direction of town.

With most able-bodied men hired on extra for roundup, the town was practically deserted. Spring heat bore down and some old men were in chairs under an overhang out of the sun. Women in tight-waisted dresses fanned themselves as they picked
up supplies or examined the latest in yard goods at the Hartney Store.

Isobel Hartney saw Lassiter coming with a long-legged stride, his dark face a blend of the piratical and benevolent. She quickly removed an apron, smoothed her yellow hair and put on a bright smile.

“Mr. Lassiter! It's an honor to have you in my store. What can I show you?”

He remembered her from that day on the east road. He stood by one of the crowded counters, admiring her. Women customers looked at Lassiter, then at Isobel Hartney standing tall in a blue silk dress, much too fancy for a small-town Texas store. Some of them exchanged glances and spoke together in whispers behind fingertips.

Isobel knew they were gossiping about her and she didn't give a hoot and a holler what they said or thought. She found Lassiter to be an interesting man and was toying with the idea that he just might be a companion—until she tired of him—which she did with all the others. One day she'd probably get around to marrying Brad Sanlee, but until that day. . . .

He stood at a counter, his dark face tight, looking over the customers in the store. Isobel waved away one of her clerks and personally sold Lassiter a sack of tobacco and some papers. He had just paid her and she was about to initiate some bright conversation when he stiffened at the sight of someone through a front window.

Isobel stood on her tiptoes so she could see who he was staring at. Her smooth forehead creased in a faint frown as she saw Millie Sanlee just dismounting at the tie rack in the big vacant lot beside the store. Millie had her black hair peeled back with the
usual sullen look on her face. Her brother Brad was with her.

He said something and crossed the street to the saloon.

Lassiter had gone outside and removed his hat as he stood talking to Millie. “Damn,” said Isobel under her breath.

In the vacant lot, Lassiter was saying, “I heard you were coming to town. So I gambled that I'd have a chance to talk to you.”

“You're Lassiter. My brother told me about you.”

“I'm here to give you a hand, if you'll take it.”

She glanced across the street and up the block at the long two-story building that housed O'Leary's. Sunlight was reflected off the windows. She saw her brother go inside.

“It's about you marrying Rep Chandler,” Lassiter said when she continued to stare at the saloon. “Millie, are you listening?”

She faced him, a faint smile on her lips. “Let's take a walk,” she suggested and started for another vacant lot behind the store. It was deeply rutted from wagon wheels.

“My real name is Millicent,” she said with a little laugh. “My mother named me. I love it. But nobody ever calls me that.”

“I will . . . Millicent.”

“You don't have to.” Smiling wistfully, she looked up into his face as they walked together. Then she sobered. “My brother's in town.”

“I saw him.”

“You're not afraid?”

“Come what may.”

Her eyes were excited for a moment, then the fire went out of them. “You mentioned Rep Chandler.”

“Yeah, it's what I want to talk to you about.”

“I've concluded that the only door left open for me is to marry him.”

“You're your own boss. You can do what you want. You ran away once, why not again? I'll help. . . .”

“Brad would hunt me down like he did last time.”

“No . . .”

“Brad says Vince was your friend. Rep told him.”

“A good friend,” Lassiter said, the scene of death coldly etched in his mind.

“All the time we were together, Vince Tevis never made a move on me.”

“What if he did? I sure wouldn't hold it against you. All I want to do is help. . . .”

“On nights if we had a roof over our heads, Vince gave me the bed. He slept on the floor in his bedroll.”

“Millicent, Millicent, I don't
care
.”

“Before that, we slept out till one night horse thieves hit us. From then on, we went by stagecoach.” Her voice caught. “So Vince died. I'm sorry.”

“Your brother killed him. . . .”

“No. It was Bolin who shot Vince. I'm pretty sure of it.”

“I don't believe that.”

“But it's true.” She described Bolin so accurately that Lassiter knew he was the one killed in front of the adobe shack. But he still didn't believe her story. It seemed she was trying to protect Sanlee. But why, after the way he had treated her?

“I knew that if I ran this time, Brad would hunt me down if it took five years. You see, he's made his plans and no one better interfere. So that's why I've decided to marry Mr. Chandler. It's what Brad wants. And it'll save trouble in the end.”

“He's threatened you in some way.”

“My mind's made up.” Her black hair had the sheen of pure silk in the sunlight.

“It's your life, but I think you're foolish.” They had halted next to a storage shed beside the store. Across the vacant lot on the west side of the store was a saddle shop, next to that was the bank.