Lassiter Tough (16 page)

A lot of his current problems he laid at the doorstep of his sister Millie—her running off with Vince Tevis, Sanlee having to go tearing after her, wasting all that time trying to track her down, then the long trip back home.

And then that day he had seen Lassiter standing at the bar in O'Leary's and had offered him a proposition. How was he to know that Lassiter and Vince Tevis had been friends? And that Lassiter had actually come all this way looking for somebody named Sam Lee, which turned out to be Brad Sanlee in person. All this he learned from Isobel Hartney one lazy night when she was in a talkative mood and disclosed what Rep Chandler had told her in the store during the week.

And thanks to Shorty Doane and the other five pulling some brainless stunt, Lassiter still lived. But not for long. He poured himself another drink, his thoughts now focused on the horses stolen from a dead man far out on the lonely flats somewhere between Santos and Tiempo.

He actually smiled, which gave O'Leary the courage to smooth down his thinning locks and waddle up to ask Brad how things were going.

“Just fine,” Sanlee replied with a hard grin. “Damn fine.”

Lassiter didn't expect the reception he received at Box C when he rode in with the remains of his crew, Rudy Ruiz lying in the bed of the new wagon purchased in Tiempo. Lassiter was just swinging into the yard by the big barn when Rep Chandler staggered out of the house, waving a revolver.

“I figured you'd keep right on goin',” Chandler said in a thick voice. His sparse brown hair stood on end and there was a stubble of gray whiskers on his chin. His eyes were reddened and he smelled as if dipped in a vat of whiskey.

“Why would I keep on going?” Lassiter made himself speak calmly. Monjosa and the others eyed Chandler and the pistol.

“You come back for her is the only answer!” Chandler shouted.

“Who the hell are you talking about?” Although Lassiter knew, it caused all the tensions of past days to well up and trip his temper.

“My wife, that's who I'm talkin' about!”

The men were drifting to the bunkhouse, those who had been on the ill-fated cattle drive and the ones who had been left behind, wanting to get away from the loud voices and the accusations. Herrera looked narrowly at the drunken Rep Chandler.

Millie came flying from the house, her long black hair streaming. Tired and upset as he was, Lassiter couldn't help but notice how her clothing was pressed tight against her body, revealing every curve. Her dark eyes were filled with sparks.

“Rep, you fool you!” she screamed at her husband.

Chandler turned, blinking as she came up and took the gun from his hand. Millie was breathing hard, her bosom heaving. “Brad's been talking to him,” she gasped, out of breath. “Putting . . . ideas into his head!”

Chandler sagged. He looked at Ruiz, who was being carried by two of the men. “What happened to him?” Chandler asked in a weak voice.

Lassiter told him, making it brief. He handed over a bank draft. Chandler squinted at it, then looked at Lassiter. “Why didn't you bring cash, like before? You know I trust you.”

“Trust me?” Lassiter gave a harsh laugh.

“Don't pay no mind to me. I'm sorry, Lassiter. I been drinkin' too much an' when I saw you, some-thin' exploded in my head.”

Lassiter only shrugged. But his mind was made up for sure this time. He was through at Box C.

Chandler rested a hand on Lassiter's shoulder. All the anger had evaporated, leaving only a husk. “You'll take supper with me an' the missus tonight, eh?”

Lassiter nodded reluctantly and watched Chandler stagger off toward the house. He wished mightily that Millie had gone with him and not
compounded an already ugly situation. But she stayed where she was, holding the pistol in both small hands.

“I'm sorry, Lassiter, really sorry. But worry over money and the awful things my goddamned brother whispered to him . . .” Tears danced in her eyes as her body trembled. “How could Brad be so . . . so despicable?”

“I want you to get Rep sobered up. Pour the black coffee into him before supper. I've got something to tell him.”

In the wild run from the house, her hair had fallen across her face. Pushing it back, she peered at Lassiter. “You're going to leave,” she guessed.

“It's best. Herrera can run things for you. He's a good man.”

“I know he is, but . . .” Tears spilled down her cheeks. She rubbed them away with a smooth forearm.

He gave her a gentle shove toward the house. “Go on, Millicent. Don't make things any worse than they are.”

“You remembered how I like that name. It sounded so sweet when you said it. . . .” Her lower lip trembled. “Oh, damn, damn, why are we put on this earth to suffer?”

“You made your bed like I made mine. You're married and I'm a drifter. It's high time I moved along.”

“I'll miss you, Lassiter.” Millie choked up and started away. “See you at supper.” Then she was hurrying across the yard, her shoulders straight, long black hair touched by sunlight.

A grim Herrera came up to listen to Lassiter's account of the tragic twilight near Cedar Creek.

Lassiter was just putting on his clothes in the bunkhouse after a bath when he heard Millie scream his name. He rushed from the bunkhouse, not even taking time to put on his gun rig, but carrying the holstered weapon, the long belt flapping at each step. He found Chandler lying on the parlor floor. His face was gray and he was trying to sit up.

Millie was white-faced. “He was standing there and the next thing I knew he . . . he just fell.”

Lassiter buckled on his gun rig while Millie spoke. Then he picked Chandler up, surprised at how light the man was, and carried him to the bedroom. Millie pulled down the covers. Lassiter laid Rep on the bed.

Chandler's eyes were open. “Hell, I'm all right,” he said with a weak smile. “Was kinda dizzy is all.”

Lassiter got Millie aside. “I'm going to send one of the men to town for the doc.”

“I'd better go,” a shaken Millie said, untying her apron. “Doc is a strange one. If one of the men came for him, he might take his time, or not come at all, depending on what kind of mood he's in.”

“Hell of a doctor.”

“He's all we have. He was out here the other day and he and Rep played poker. They did a lot of drinking and Doc shouldn't. He shouldn't even touch it and he knows better. So he . . . he may not be over it yet.”

She started for the door, but Lassiter caught her. “I'll fetch Doc Clayburn. He'll come. Believe me on that.”

But after the ride to town, it took nearly an hour to get the doctor ready to set a saddle. He had eaten—Lassiter had seen to that—for the first time in over
two days: three eggs, a steak and biscuits at the Santos Cafe.

“The curse of mankind, strong drink,” the doctor sighed when they were well out of Santos, cantering, his medical bag bouncing behind the saddle. “Rep's been having troubles so I tried to cheer him up. By doing so, I put another dent in my own soul. In my liver I guess would be a better way to put it.” Clayburn gave a sour laugh.

“Rep's got nothing to worry about now,” Lassiter said. It was late afternoon with the sun dipping into fleecy clouds and starting to stain them in rainbow colors. “I brought back enough money from Tiempo to see him squared away.”

“Well, it wasn't altogether money that was troubling Rep.” Then the doctor broke off and rubbed his chin and stared at a wall of mesquite they were passing.

“Go ahead and say it, Doc,” Lassiter snapped.

“It . . . it's only gossip, I'm sure.”

“Thanks to Brad Sanlee.” Lassiter spoke the name with such venom that Doc Clayburn jerked around in the saddle to stare. He was slender in leg and torso but had a well-rounded stomach. To fill out his narrow face, he wore enormous brown sideburns.

The rest of the ride was made in silence. When they rode in, the vaqueros were kneeling in front of the main house. With them was Herrera's wife, a black rebozo over her head. Lassiter turned cold, thinking of Millie. “My God,” he groaned.

They had laid Chandler out on his own bed. Millie stood woodenly beside it.

“I went to take him some broth and . . . and he was gone.” Her chin trembled.

They left the room while Doc Clayburn made a brief examination. Then the doctor came to the parlor and slumped to a sofa. “Rep had a lot of things on his mind. I guess his old heart just pumped itself to death.”

Millie sat in a straight chair across from him. She gripped her knees so hard the knuckles were white. “My brother did this to Rep,” she said in a tight voice. “Just as surely as if he had used a gun.”

“Don't upset yourself, Millie . . . Mrs. Chandler,” the doctor advised dryly. “It's over and done. You can't help your husband now.”

Millie glared through the moisture that clouded her dark eyes. “I know what you're thinking, Doc, and it's wrong, wrong. No, I didn't love Rep. But I respected him. And I would have made him a good wife. Isn't that true, Lassiter?”

“Very true,” he replied gravely.

Doc Clayburn suggested they have a drink in memory of the late Jeremiah Rep Chandler. Millie got out Rep's bottle and poured into three glasses with a shaking hand.

“It's not proper for me to drink my whiskey straight,” she said, her face stained with tears, “but at the moment I don't feel very ladylike.”

Doc Clayburn drank so many toasts to the memory of the departed rancher that he was forced to spend the night. He slept on a spare cot in Lassiter's quarters.

In the morning, Lassiter made a silent ride with him back to Santos where arrangements were made for the funeral.

They buried Chandler in the ranch graveyard a quarter of a mile beyond the house, among the
graves of vaqueros and ranch hands and next to that of his late wife.

Most of Santos had come out to pay respects to their neighbor. Kilhaven, Tate and Rooney were present with some of their men. The tall Kilhaven, the only one who had never married, stood alone.

There being no reverend in Santos and no time to send for one, Millie read from the Book of Psalms in a strong, clear voice.

Isobel Hartney worked her way through the assemblage to reach Lassiter's side. He saw her, stunning in black, her green eyes under pale brows slightly mocking.

“An attractive young widow and a ranch for the taking,” she whispered. “What an opportunity.”

Lassiter gave her such a cold look that she blanched.

“I . . . I was only jesting,” she said quickly and touched his arm. But he drew away.

In the next moment he heard Sanlee's voice. “Sorry I'm late, sis, but . . .”

Millie was just throwing the first clod of dirt, thumping down onto her husband's coffin. At the sound of her brother's voice, she whirled, her black eyes alive with hatred.

“Get off this ranch, Brad. How
dare
you come here after what you've done?”

Sanlee, big and bearded, in a black suit a little too tight for him, clenched his teeth. “What the hell have I done?”

“You know, you
know!
” she cried, leveling a slim forefinger at her half-brother. “Get off this ranch. Or so help me God, I'll kill you myself!”

With his face flaming around the beard, Sanlee
stalked away. Some of his men had ridden over with him—Doane, Pinto George, Quine and Tige.

As they all mounted up, Doane turned his large skull and looked directly at Lassiter. There was no emotion on his scarred face, but his eyes were threatening. Then they all rode away.

Lassiter realized he would have to postpone his leave-taking until Millie got herself in hand.

With Rep Chandler's death, five of the vaqueros quit. They had liked working for Rep Chandler but didn't fancy being bossed by a woman, his widow. It was a matter of stubborn male pride. Luis Herrera had tried to argue, but they were adamant. Shortly after their departure, a drifter named Pete Barkley came out to the ranch asking for work. He was rangy and had a pleasant smile. But there was a hard, calculating look in his light gray eyes when he thought no one was observing him.

Herrera asked Lassiter if he should hire him on. Lassiter, with other things on his mind, told him to use his own judgment. Lassiter was trying to figure out some way to leave Box C without hurting Millie too much. Before quitting the country, however, he intended to have it out with her half-brother. Hopefully, it would be the elimination of Sanlee, not Lassiter. In which case, she would have a clear field to pick and choose her own way through life. He would make a suggestion—to give some favorable
attention to Marcus Kilhaven. Kilhaven had told him once how much he admired her. At the time, Lassiter had sensed the feeling went a little deeper than simple admiration.

Two days after the Chandler funeral, Sheriff Doak Palmer rode to Box C with some grim-looking men. With him were Sanlee and Doane, the latter wearing a hard smile. Two of the sheriff's six men, all strangers from Tiempo, had a pair of loose horses on lead ropes.

“These was found in your pasture, Lassiter,” Sheriff Palmer said, gesturing at the horses.

“Who found them?” Lassiter demanded.

“Don't make no difference.” Palmer's flinty eyes were triumphant. “Brand belonged to a man named Harkness. Way I figure it, you needed horses after your herd stampeded an' killed a few. So you helped yourself to Harkness horses.”

“Lassiter a horse thief?” Millie cried, coming to the yard in time to hear the last. “Impossible!”

“Sorry, Mrs. Chandler,” the tall sheriff smirked. “Not only horse-stealin', but murder. Harkness was found with his throat cut.”

“Oh, my God,” Millie gasped.

“First off, my deputy figured Harkness, bein' a mean ol' cuss, had cheated one hombre too many. But then he noticed the old man's dog was shot, an' horses missin'. Horses found on your property, Mrs. Chandler.”