Lassiter Tough (15 page)

“Well, he was.”

“I've heard of you, Lassiter. While you're in my jurisdiction, I'd watch where I stepped and keep my mouth closed.”

The sheriff's flinty eyes bored into Lassiter's face. But Lassiter met him with his hard blue gaze, and in the ensuing strained silence the sheriff flushed and looked away.

Lassiter was so angered at Rep Chandler for letting his affairs get in such a mess that an additional cattle drive had been necessary, he used some of the proceeds from the sale to buy a team and wagon. It was to haul the wounded Rudy Ruiz back to the ranch.

“I hope on the way we run into those Sanlee sons of bitches,” he snarled. “Nothing I'd like better than to heat up my trigger finger on the lot of 'em!”

High-heeled cowman's boots were not designed for hiking. After several hobbling miles, blisters began to form on the feet of the weary men. They were four Diamond Eight survivors of an attempted ambush.

Shorty Doane had to call a halt. He lowered his immense frame on a flat rock and pulled off his oversized boots. Pinto George was in a sour mood. His pale eyes were reddened; brows and hair that showed from under his hat, usually almost white, were now darkened from dust that had been blowing along the canyon floor. A stiff wind had come up, hurling sand into their faces. Jeddy Quine swore. Joe Tige scowled and said nothing. The four men spat grit and cleansed their mouths at a sluggish stream. All had been limping badly the past hour.

Jeddy Quine's left eyelid dropped almost closed as he turned on Doane. “You had Lassiter dead to rights. Why the hell didn't you kill him?”

“ 'Cause I wanted him alive,” Doane snapped.

“An' it cost us Hale an' Rance an' put us afoot,” Quine complained.

“You're alive,” Doane snarled. “So shut up!”

Quine started to bristle, but Pinto George grabbed him by an arm and shook his head.

The burly Joe Tige had borne up on the long hike through the canyon better than the others. His yellowish eyes flicked over his three suffering companions.

“What we need is horses.”

Doane agreed. Looking back, he still couldn't believe the disaster that had struck them like a bolt of lightning. One minute Lassiter was sitting in his saddle in plain sight—a perfect target—and the next his horse was suddenly wheeling. And the shot intended for Lassiter's arm, to bring him down, had struck a bull instead. And on the heels of the rifle shot and the bull's scream of pain, the herd stampeded.

In those few seconds, Doane saw some of the herd leaders shunted toward the great clumps of brush that hid the Diamond Eight men at the top of the long, slanting trail. The next thing Doane remembered were maddened steers plunging headlong into the brush. He barely had time to fling himself from the saddle. He landed at the top of the trail that was some two feet below the actual lip of the canyon. However, it provided just enough clearance so that the cattle, in their senseless charge, leaped over his prostrate body instead of grinding it to sausage. Their momentum swept his horse with them to the canyon floor. Tige, Quine and George had already dismounted, shoving their rifle barrels through the screen of brush to take aim at the two swing riders on that side of the herd. But after getting off two shots, killing one, wounding another, the herd was running. They just had time enough to
follow Doane's lead by flattening themselves below the rise of ground as the runaway cattle cleared their bodies.

Chuck Hale and Dave Rance, who were still in the saddle, frantically tried to turn their horses in the narrow trail, but had no chance. Doane remembered their screams of terror above the thunder of the stampede as they were swept off the trail as if by a giant's hand. And with them went the rest of the horses, upended as they fell, legs futilely thrashing air as if that would ease the cruelty of the rocks below.

“Where's the nearest ranch in this goddamn country?” Doane demanded. “Anybody know?”

“Old man Harkness has got a place fifteen miles south of here an' over west,” Pinto George grunted.

“Fifteen? Whyn't you say a hundred an' be done with it?”

“I been around here since I was a kid,” George went on. “It's the only spread I know of in these parts.”

Swearing at their bad luck, they bathed their aching feet in the stream, put on socks and boots and resumed their painful hike.

It wasn't until nearly sundown of the following day that they came in sight of the Harkness place. Ben Harkness had been at the place for twenty years. When he moved in, he was the only settler within fifty miles. He had surrounded his house with a wall built of rocks from a nearby creekbed, to keep out prowling Kiowa and Comanche. But after marrying a Kiowa squaw, they had mostly let him alone. His wife died two years ago and was buried on a knoll behind the house of rock and adobe. He ran a small herd of cattle and kept a few good horses on hand.

He was just filling a bucket from the yard pump when he happened to look through the open gate. He saw four men approaching. They were afoot, which was odd, and limping badly. His first impression was that they had been wounded in a gunfight. The big one had his teeth bared as if it was agony to take one more step.

Harkness went into the house and got his old Sharps. He levered in a .50-caliber shell and waited till they got near enough to hear his voice.

“What do you want here?” he demanded loudly.

Doane shouted through cupped hands. “Need horses.”

“You got money?”

“Some.”

Harkness sniffed at the word “some.” “I can only let you have one. An' it'll cost you.”

The men had halted some twenty-five yards away. Now they exchanged glances.

“We'll come ahead an' dicker,” Doane called. They started walking again.

“Only one of you come,” Harkness shouted back. “I want one hundred dollars for the horse.”

“You go to hell, you ol' skinflint!” Doane yelled.

For an answer, Harkness sent one of the .50-caliber bullets whistling just above their heads. They halted abruptly.

“You got a hundred dollars between you?” Harkness called.

“Yeah,” Doane replied after a slight hesitation.

“Looks like you'll have to take turns in the saddle. But it can't be helped. One horse is all I can spare.” Harkness pointed to Jeddy Quine, whom he considered the less dangerous. “You come with the money. The rest of you stay put.”

Doane, in a low voice, said, “Pretend we're dig-gin' money from our pockets. Then you take care of him, Jeddy. We need four horses, an' we ain't got all day to argue about it.”

Quine made a great show of stuffing money into his pocket, then started forward. But Harkness yelled for him to leave his gun. Quine nodded and handed his revolver to Doane. Then he pretended to stumble. As he came up, he had plucked the bone-handled knife from Doane's boot. With the blade up his shirt sleeve, he started again toward the house. Its roof line could barely be seen above the rock wall.

As Quine approached, Harkness thought of letting Chief out of the house. He was a smooth-coated brown animal of enormous size but these days was unpredictable due to old age. But if the four men gave him any trouble, he'd turn Chief loose. They'd be limping a lot worse than they were now after Chief snapped at their legs and ankles a few times.

Harkness waited by the gate, a lean, weathered figure with a deeply lined face. He had the Sharps under one arm and an eye on the pocket where he thought Quine had shoved the money.

“Hand over the money first,” Harkness ordered when Quine reached the gate. “Then I'll show you the horse.”

“Sure,” Quine said. Excitement made his left eyelid droop.

He shoved his left hand into his pants pocket, withdrew it slowly. Harkness had his greedy eyes fixed on the pocket. Too late he saw Quine leap. Quine brushed aside the Sharps and in the same movement his knife flashed. A stream of pinkish blood erupted from the seamed brown throat. Harkness collapsed, his blood staining the ground.

Quine waved the others in. “Looks like we got us four horses!”

A dog in the house was making a great racket, jumping against the front door and snarling.

“Better take care of it, one of you,” Doane said as he hurried to the corral, as fast as sore feet would allow.

Just as he reached the corral, there was the crash of a .45. The dog no longer uttered a sound.

“We better get the hell out as fast as we can,” Tige said.

Pinto George turned on Quine. “Did you have to
kill
him?”

Quine rested a hand on his gun and just looked at him.

“My pa brung me by a few times when I was a kid,” George went on. “Harkness had his squaw give us supper a time or two.”

“Bet your pa paid good money,” Doane said with a harsh laugh. “Now quit your whining, Pinto. An' let's put miles between us an' this place.”

Just in case they'd run into somebody who would spot the Harkness T Bar brand on the horses, they kept off the main cattle trail. They made a wide circle to reach Diamond Eight headquarters by a route where a chance meeting with anyone would be minimized.

It was midday when they came riding into the yard. A team and buckboard waited in front of the rather ornate ranch house, sunlight sparkling on wide front windows. The team stood with heads down, lines wrapped around an iron tie boy.

Brad saw them from a parlor window and stiffened in his armchair. Seated on a sofa, wearing a silk dress to match her eyes, was Isobel Hartney. Her
long legs were crossed and she was regarding Sanlee out of narrowed green eyes. She said, “I'll have to give marriage a lot of thought, Brad. . . .”

He twisted in his chair to glare at her, his lips in the bearded face compressed to a pair of white lines. “You was more or less sure. Till that Lassiter showed up.”

That caused her to smile. “Don't tell me you have spies in my bedroom.” She knew instantly it had been the wrong thing to say, even in jest. He sprang out of the chair and his backhand swung. It struck her so hard that lights danced in her head. As she fell over on the sofa, he went storming out the door. She heard him thumping down the veranda stairs, yelling stridently, “Where're the others? What in hell
happened!
”

Most of her life, she had been aware of his explosive temper, so why had she goaded him? Her face throbbed. She sat up and gingerly felt her right cheek. There would be swelling and quite possibly a black eye. It crossed her mind to tell Lassiter what Brad had done. But just as quickly she tossed the idea aside. It would mean the end of Lassiter, no matter how valiant he might be. Brad would crush him with superior numbers.

Out in the yard, Sanlee was listening to Doane relate the tragic incident. But he embellished the story. On the way, Lassiter had picked up more men and Diamond Eight was simply outnumbered, implying that Brad should have sent more men.

In the next breath, Doane told him about the horses and old man Harkness. “We better get rid of the horses, Brad.”

“Yeah. In case somebody comes lookin' at brands.” Then he rubbed his bearded chin. “Tell you
what, hide 'em for a spell till I do some thinkin' on the subject.” He grinned, then sobered. “Now I got to go to town.” He loped for the house, knowing that after having her face punched, Isobel wouldn't stay the night.

He guessed he shouldn't have hit her. So far, during courtship, he had kept himself under control. Time enough to use the flat of his hand after the marriage vows were sealed. He recalled the old man blackening the eyes of Millie's mother a time or two. He supposed it ran in the family.

In the house, Mrs. Elva Dowd's austere features were expressionless, but she had evidently overheard the business with Isobel. He made his apologies to the green-eyed beauty while she listened stiffly on the sofa, her knees pressed primly together. The puffy right side of her face was an ugly shade of red.

“When I saw my four men come ridin' in as if nothing had happened, when I sent six to do a job, I . . . well, I just exploded. I'm sorry, Isobel, damn sorry.”

“You may drive me home, Brad,” she said coolly.

All the way to town he tried to make amends but she failed to respond. She just sat hunched in the wagon, staring at the miles of brush as if counting each clump.

At the rear door of the store he tried to help her down. But she alighted from the wagon without his assistance. “When'll I see you again?” he asked, standing with his hat in hand, a lock of coarse, reddish hair hanging over one eye.

“I'll let you know. I tripped over something is how I'll explain my face.”

“Jesus, I'm sorry about that.” Then he looked at
her intently, the eyes with their sheen of gray steel. “It ain't true about Lassiter, is it?”

Not wishing to risk his wrath twice in one day, even if now in town and at her own doorstep, she said, “Now that's the silliest thing you've ever asked me.”

Giving him a faint smile, she hurried into the store. He heard her on the stairs to the second-floor living quarters.

It was a moment before he put on his hat. He stood there, a big man with shoulders tensed, thinking. Had there been just a flicker of something in her green eyes at the mention of Lassiter's name? Well, Lassiter wouldn't be alive much longer to worry about it. After they were married, he'd ask Isobel point-blank about Lassiter. And if he figured she was lying, she'd end up with more than a puffy cheek.

Jerking down the brim of his hat, he drove the buckboard over to O'Leary's and stormed inside for a drink from his private bottle. He was in such a mood that O'Leary, with his plump red face, kept out of the way.

Sanlee thought of his great plans that had somehow gone awry, thanks to Lassiter. When his father had died, instead of sorrow he had felt a great relief, a surging excitement that at last he was his own man to carve out his own empire. The old man had acquired Diamond Eight but had let that be the extent of his ambition. Not so the son. Brad Sanlee had a vision of owning a goodly share of acreage and cows in this part of Texas. All that stood in his way were Rep Chandler, Marcus Kilhaven, Rooney and Tate. With their acreage and cattle added to his, he could dictate his own terms, more or less, as to shipping
costs and cattle prices. Year by year the railroad would be getting closer. It would cause the Santos country to boom. Sanlee was already making plans to be ready for it.