Lassiter Tough (8 page)

“If you stay on as Chandler's foreman, my brother will be afraid to make his move.”

“Did Chandler suggest that?”

Instead of answering, Millie's black eyes sparkled. “Oh, I know what Brad wants to do. He thinks I'm weak. He's always planned to use me as a pawn.” The corners of her generous mouth were firm. “He thinks I'm worthless. A lot of people do. . . .”

“That's fool talk, Millicent.”

She gave a little laugh. “Oh, for heaven's sake, call me Millie. I'm more than used to it by now.”

Lassiter tried to argue against the marriage, but she was adamant. “Brad Sanlee is my half brother. His father and my mother were . . . friends. Even before the wife, Brad's mother, died. I'm only telling you this because everyone in this part of the country knows it and you'll hear it soon enough.” She sounded bitter.

“What happened after the old man's wife died? Did he marry your mother?”

“Things went on just as before. My father lived at the ranch, my mother and I here in Santos.”

“He never married your mother, then.”

Millie gave a small laugh. “My mother was half Mexican. And the old man had lost three uncles in the fighting when General Santa Anna was driven out of Texas. Some memories are the longest.”

“I know,” Lassiter said, thinking of Luis Herrera.

“But after my mother died, I guess Mr. Sanlee's conscience got to bothering him. Until then, I didn't know he had one. Anyway, he brought me into his house to raise as his daughter—despite my so-called mixed blood.” They were walking back when she suddenly halted and gripped his arm. “Stay on as foreman, won't you?”

“I don't know about that. . . .”

“At least for a year.”

“And what about you?” he asked her. “What about your life?”

“I'll be a good wife to Mr. Chandler. I'll hold up my end of the bargain. But I'll need help against my brother. Will you do it, Lassiter?” She gave him a sad smile, stood abruptly on her toes and pressed warm lips against his cheek.

Then she started walking away, the fringe of the leather riding skirt whipping around booted ankles. There was a sadness to her beauty that touched him deeply. He liked her and felt sorry for her. But did he owe her a year out of his life? She had rejected his offer to help her run away and elected instead to submit to her half-brother's wishes, and marry the man he had selected. But still she had asked for Lassiter's protection. Maybe he'd stay until she was married and settled. Then it was up to Chandler to protect not only his wife but the ranch.

Then the reason for him coming to Texas in the first place came crowding back. And he was remembering what she had told him about Vince Tevis's death.

He found her in front of the store, peering nervously down the twisting road in the direction that Rep Chandler would take from his Box C.

He saw her look around at him. “Brad can see us from O'Leary's. You shouldn't be seen with me.”

“No matter what you said, I think he killed Vince Tevis.”

“No.”

“You're trying to save your brother's life,” he said coldly, “by claiming that Bolin . . .”

“You killed Bolin. So you said. So you already avenged poor Vince.”

“You'd stick up for Sanlee? After all he's done to you and the way he humiliated you at roundup? Then forcing you into marrying a man twice your age or more?”

“After all, we did have the same father, Brad and I. . . .”

Lassiter gave a harsh laugh and shook his head. He started to speak, but she stepped close, her lovely face showing sudden strain.

“I hoped you'd leave,” she said in a tight whisper, “so I kept talking. . . . Now I've got to tell you. Doug Krinkle is . . .”

She broke off, a look of terror in her eyes.

“Krinkle is . . .
what?
” he demanded, looking both ways along the nearly deserted street.

“While we were talking, I saw him slip out the back door of the saddle shop next door.”

Lassiter wheeled, one hand clamped to his gun. He stared at the adjoining building beyond the weed-grown lot. It was one story of weathered lumber with a parapet along the roof. A sign on the side in black letters said:
SIMON'S SADDLE SHOP
.

And at that moment there was a rattle of wagon wheels, the hoofbeats of a hard-running team. Lassiter jerked his head around and saw Rep Chandler
driving up in his hack wagon, a broad smile under his mustache as he saw Millie. Then it faded into a look of surprise as he spotted Lassiter standing beside her.

From a corner of his eye, Lassiter finally spotted movement, possibly Krinkle. It came from the storage shed behind the store. He gave Millie a hard shove that sent her stumbling toward the front door of the store. And at the same time he yelled at Chandler. “Get out, Rep! I smell a trap!”

Chandler, with his splinted leg resting on the dashboard, awkwardly hauled in the spirited team. And as he brought them to a halt, there was a gunshot. It came from the roof of the saddle shop. A bullet splintered a corner of the wagon seat.

Lassiter had already noticed movement on the roof. He saw part of a face and the gleam of a rifle barrel over the edge of the wooden parapet. And as if jerked by wires from an observation balloon, a man popped into view on the roof. As women began screaming, he dropped the rifle. He lurched to the parapet, blood pumping from a hole in his neck. He bowed low as if to inspect the descent of his falling weapon. Then he pitched over and followed it to the ground. Lassiter had a glimpse of a badly scarred face.

“I'm callin' you, Lassiter!” It was the screech of Doug Krinkle in an off-key voice. He had been running from the protection of the shed along the west side of the store. Now he had halted, his mouth hanging open, probably because the man on the roof had fired too soon and taken him by surprise. Now Krinkle was snapping into action and apparently going ahead with the plan, whatever it was. But his gun was already out and you don't call a man unless your weapon is holstered. Obviously, he had been told to shout the challenge and so he had done so, belatedly.

He was coming at a run, firing at a corner of the store where Lassiter had ducked. Millie was crouched near the door. Women inside were still hysterical. Rep Chandler had backed his team and was reaching on the floorboards for a rifle. Adobe chips were flying as bullets dug into the wall of the store, which were fired erratically by a nervous Krinkle. The man was running hard now; Lassiter could hear his foot-steps.
And in another handful of seconds, Millie and Rep Chandler could be in danger.

Krinkle's third shot was aimed chest high as he swung away from the store for a glimpse of his target. But the bullet went screaming in ricochet off the wall. At that moment Lassiter sprang into a crouching run into the open before Krinkle could fire again. He glimpsed the look of surprise on Krinkle's face and saw the man recover quickly to try and bring down Lassiter's sprinting figure with a snap shot. But it missed. As Krinkle thumbed back the hammer for another desperate try, Lassiter shot him twice—once high in the chest, the second just above the belt buckle.

As Krinkle collapsed, someone yelled a warning. Lassiter spun around in time to see Brad Sanlee just kicking through the weeds of the vacant lot. He held a big .45. In his wild run, Sanlee's hat sailed off and his coarse, reddish hair bounced at each step.

The .45 came up, but not aimed at Lassiter. Sanlee fired into the weeds. “He was tryin' for your back, Lassiter!” Sanlee shouted. “I got him for you!”

Men were coming at a run, some of them crowding around the one who had fallen from the roof. Sanlee had just fired into the side of the skull.

A white-faced Millie came to grip Lassiter by his arm. “Are you all right?” she breathed.

He nodded and saw a stricken Rep Chandler at a limping run toward Millie. Lassiter gave her a shove toward the rancher and turned to look at Krinkle. He pushed through a circle of men to stare down at the crumpled figure.

“Dead as last night's beer,” a man said with a shaky laugh. “That was some shootin', mister,” he added to Lassiter.

Lassiter smeared a shirt sleeve across his forehead and watched Sanlee lumber up.

“That was close,” Sanlee said, breathing hard from the run. “I saw him about to make a try for your back.”

The man was already dead. I'll bet on it!

Lassiter kept his thoughts to himself. Swiftly, he punched out empties from his smoking .44. They bounced along the hard ground, then he reloaded.

A round man with a jiggling belly under an immaculate white shirt came hurrying up to stand next to Sanlee. “I'm Arthur Hobart of the bank,” he said to Lassiter. “You certainly owe Mr. Sanlee a vote of thanks. He saved your bacon.”

Lassiter wondered about that. The bank was beyond the saddle shop. But, of course, Hobart might have been in the street when the shootout took place. He saw Hobart turn away, give Sanlee a small smile, a pat on the arm, then walk away through the crowd. In Lassiter's mind, a strong affiliation had been established between Diamond Eight and the Bank of Santos.

Sanlee was helping his sister into Chandler's wagon, where she sat, stiff as a mud wall, pale about the mouth.

“I reckon Krinkle carried a grudge on account of you messin' him up the other day,” Sanlee said over his shoulder to Lassiter. “The other fella was his no-account cousin. I reckon Krinkle talked him into backin' his hand.”

“I reckon,” Lassiter said dryly, his eyes as cold as a sleet-driven sky.

“You could use a drink, Lassiter,” Sanlee suggested. “Rep's got some talkin' to do to my sister. Let's you an' me go over to O'Leary's an' . . .”

“I'm due back at roundup.”

“Suit yourself,” Sanlee said shortly. He walked over to where a ring of men were staring down at Krinkle. “Damn it, Doug,” he said to the corpse. “You an' your temper. I told you that holdin' a grudge can get a man killed. An' it sure did.”

Lassiter walked stiffly to where he had left his horse. Millie was rattling away in Chandler's wagon, and Sanlee was crossing to the saloon.

As Lassiter untied the reins at the rear of the store, Isobel Hartney opened the back door and leaned out, blond and beautiful. She was wearing her apron again and a stub of yellow pencil was behind an ear.

“The other day you were lucky, Lassiter. Today you had even more luck. That's twice. I dread to think of a third time.”

“Tell you the truth, I'm not lookin' forward to it.”

He gave her a tight smile and rode out.

Only after a mile or so from town did he begin to let down. He could have used the whiskey Sanlee had suggested. But Lassiter had no intention of drinking with him. He knew as sure as there was sun in the Texas sky that Sanlee had put the pair up to it. Kill both of them, Chandler and Lassiter. Then Sanlee could bargain away his half-sister in another direction, perhaps with one of the ranchers whose names had appeared on the death list.

Strangely enough, the cattle drive to railhead went without incident. With two money sacks holding $74,000 in cash, Lassiter made a much faster return trip. While away, he had done a lot of thinking and concluded that his obligation to Rep Chandler had been fulfilled. It was time to settle the business he
still felt he had with Sanlee, despite Millie's insistence that her brother was not involved in the death of Vince Tevis. With the Sanlee matter out of the way at last, he would head for Arizona. He liked the country and had friends there.

Upon his arrival back at Box C, he was surprised to find the ranch yard strung with Chinese lanterns. There was a bustle of activity, men moving long tables into the yard. The Romero brothers, who did all the barbecuing for the area, were digging their pits.

Rep Chandler spotted him through a window and came limping to the door with a cane. He grinned broadly. His leg was no longer splinted. “Thank the good Lord you got home in time, Lassiter. Millie will be awful pleased. . . .”

“Time for what?” Lassiter asked as he handed over the money sacks. Chandler hardly gave them a glance.

“Why, for the weddin', that's what. Only time we could get the reverend, as he's due north in a coupla days.”

“Listen, Rep . . .”

“Millie wants you to be best man.” Chandler clapped him on the back. “An' I want it, too. It'll make that little gal awful happy, I can tell you.”

“Being best man is Sanlee's job. What's he say about it?”

“She had it out with him. He backed down.”

Lassiter wondered about that. Well, would it hurt him to stay for the wedding? Lassiter asked himself.

It turned out to be one of the biggest events for that part of Texas since the war. Neighbors that Chandler hadn't seen in two years or more, because of vast distances, were in attendance. The Romero boys had lined their barbecue pits with rocks. Fires
had been built and allowed to burn down to coals. Then great chunks of beef were put into the pits, covered with rocks, then gunny sacks and allowed to roast.

Early on the day of the wedding the aroma of cooking food permeated the spring air. The cleared area beyond the nearest barn was filled with wagons and teams. Nearby, tents were being pitched to accommodate those guests not lucky enough to get one of the spare bedrooms in the big adobe ranch house.

Some of Herrera's friends had been hired to supply the music. With guitar, fiddles and cornets, it was lively. Most of the guests, Lassiter noticed, mingled freely with the Mexicans. Only a few were still stiff-necked with their undiminished memories of Mexican rule in Texas.

Sanlee arrived with a great fanfare, a dozen of his Diamond Eight riders on horses decorated with bunting. In the wagon, which Sanlee was driving with a broad smile on his bearded face, was Millie. She smiled demurely. Their wagon was colorfully bedecked with cornflowers.

They rolled into the yard accompanied by a great shout from the many guests. The gaunt preacher in sober black was behind them in another rig. Because it was bad luck for the bridegroom to see his intended before the wedding, Millie was hustled into the house through a side door by some of the excited ladies.