Lassiter Tough (22 page)

“An' I got here a legal posse,” Sanlee continued with a sweep of his long arm. “Every man is deputized by
me!
”

“That's not legal.” Lassiter was clutching at straws. “A sheriff has to do it.”

“Why, damn me, you just might be right.” Sanlee laughed. “But by the time we argue it out, you'll be in the ground.”

Holding Millie in the vise of one arm, Sanlee pulled out a bandanna as Millie began to screech at him again, sobbing. While two of his men gripped the struggling Millie by the arms, Sanlee gagged her. Then he bound her wrists with a length cut from a catch rope. He walked her down the steps and to the buckboard that had just pulled up, boosting her onto the seat of it. One of the men sprang up beside her and gathered in the reins.

“Four of you go along with her,” Sanlee said as he leveled a finger at them. “If any one of you puts a hand on her, that man is
dead
.” The warning was given quietly. But the men assigned to escort her to Diamond Eight were obviously impressed.

“Mrs. Dowd can handle her easy enough, once you get her home,” Sanlee said. “Now clear out.”

As the buckboard team sprang forward, hitting their collars, Millie turned her tear-stained face to Lassiter. Only for an instant did their eyes meet. Then he lost sight of her in the trees. Dust raised by the team and wagon and escorting riders drifted above the trees. . . .

Esperanza Herrera, who had remained out of sight during the invasion of the Diamond Eight men, made the sign of the cross when they pulled out. With her heart pounding, she hurried to the bedroom. She had to have riding clothes and she
had none. So she exchanged her dress for a pair of her husband's trousers. They were too tight around the middle and she had to roll up the legs. And one of his shirts was too long. She tied the ends of it around her waist. Then she saddled a horse and started east to try and find her husband and the other men.

As she rode fast through the thickening heat, her lips murmured desperate prayers. The town of Santos was not too far and it was named for saints. Perhaps one of them would be nearby and hear her plea. She spurred the horse in a dead run toward the western boundary of Marcus Kilhaven's ranch. It was where her husband, Luis, had taken the crew. She prayed she would arrive in time. Poor Señor Lassiter was in the hands of the enemy. . . .

Pete Barkley riding a few yards ahead of the lead horseman shouted back to Sanlee. “Somebody's comin'!”

“Watch it,” Sanlee warned tensely to his men and peered ahead through the screen of brush. It was where the road made a sweeping curve.

Lassiter, flanked by Diamond Eight men, tensed in the saddle of his black horse. From the corner of his eye, he studied the nearest man, calculating how far he would have to reach in order to seize a holstered gun. The man to his left was slightly nearer, but it would mean having to twist in the saddle so his right hand would be within range. But in shifting his gaze, he saw that the man on his right presented a solution. He was Jake Semple, obviously left-handed for his gun was worn on that side. All Lassiter had to do was lean in the saddle, snap out his right hand, while holding the reins in his left, and close his fingers over the butt.

As he tensed for the reckless gamble, however,
Semple pulled aside and out of reach. Every one of them was staring ahead to try and make out the rider Barkley had spotted. They could hear the sounds of an approaching horse.

Lassiter swore under his breath and settled back to wait for Semple to come again within reach. He rubbed the moist palm of his right hand along the seam of his canvas work pants. So far, they hadn't bound his wrists. One of the men had suggested it, but Sanlee said no. He had jeered at Lassiter, saying, “I wanta make it mighty temptin' for you to try an' get away. An' if you do, my boys got orders to shoot your legs out from under. That'll leave you alive. But before it's over you'll wish to Christ it had been quick.”

“Murder in cold blood is what it adds up to.”

“Naw, not at all. Hell, you tried to escape an' me an' my men bein' reps of the law, we had to cut you down. An' if you're beat all to hell an' bloodied up, we'll say you put up one hell of a fight. You get it, amigo?”

That was twenty minutes or so ago; Lassiter had lost all track of time. He had ridden in silence since then, his mind in turmoil for a time. Then he began coolly to turn over plan after plan, discarding each as too risky. But he knew there would come a time, and soon, when he would have to take the risk and to hell with the consequences.

He wondered who Pete Barkley had spotted up ahead. And he noticed how tense Sanlee and the men had become as they waited for the rider to appear. It made Lassiter think that Sanlee might not be quite as sure of himself as he pretended.

Isobel Hartney appeared suddenly around the bend in the road.

A broad grin followed a look of surprise on Sanlee's bearded face. “Why, howdy, ma'am,” he sang out and his hat came off, his men baring their heads. “What're you doin' out this way?” Sanlee asked affably but with a definite note of strain in his voice.

For an answer she threaded her way through the staring Diamond Eight men and rode up to Lassiter. “I see I'm a little late,” she said evenly. “They've already got you.”

“Seems like,” Lassiter said, looking deep into her green eyes, wondering just how much help she might be to him in this dangerous situation.

Isobel turned in the saddle. “Brad, I want you to turn him loose.”

“Loose?” Sanlee's coarse brows shot up in mock surprise. “He ain't tied.”

“Then you're free to ride away, Lassiter,” she said. “We'll ride together.”

Sanlee lost his patience. He swore and rode up to where she sat in her saddle. “Think again,” he snarled. He leaned in the saddle toward her face, which seemed to have been carved out of white marble.

“I demand that you let him go!” she cried.

“Long as you seem to be hornin' in, Isobel honey, you can stay around an' watch me hang him!” He bit off the last few words and his lips twisted.

A tremor crossed her shoulders. “Your ridiculous story about Doc Clayburn . . .”

“There's some cottonwoods about a mile ahead. We'll find a good stout limb that'll hold his weight.”

“I repeat, your ridiculous story that Doc Clayburn saw—”

It was as far as she got before Sanlee seized her by a wrist, twisting it so hard that she cried out. “Once
we're hitched,” he said in low-voiced fury, “you'll learn to keep your nose outta my business.” He turned her loose and put on his hat. “Now you just ride along with us like a good little gal until we find us a good stout tree limb. This damn mesquite ain't worth a hang when it comes to hangin' a man.” He laughed at his witticism.

“You're cruel and you're a monster,” she said coldly.

“Yeah, ain't I both of 'em.”

He threw back his head and began to laugh. His men, clapping hats back on their heads, joined in. The boss seemed in a good mood again, they were thinking, and the day held promise after all. It would be something to watch her face while Lassiter was kicking his life away at the end of a rope. Some of them wondered if she'd faint. A lot of women couldn't stand a hanging. Others could. Those who had known her for some years thought at times she had ice in her veins. She might get a little pale around the edges all right, but she'd watch the whole grim business with nary a whimper. But the fool woman didn't know enough to keep her mouth shut. She kept on arguing with the boss.

“Look at it this way, Brad. As long as you're a deputy sheriff with the power of arrest, and you say you have Doc Clayburn as a witness, why not do it the legal way? Let him have a fair trial.”

“ 'Cause I figure to do it my way. He's cost me too much already. Besides that, I hear he's cheated the hangman a couple o' times already. Well, he ain't gonna cheat this one.”

But finally he turned on her when she persisted in her argument. “Get back to town, pronto!” He glared. “I'll only tell you once. Give me any more
trouble an' so help me, I'll pull you across my lap an' use the flat of my hand where you sit down. I'll do it right in front of
everybody!
”

She gave a deep sigh and her shoulders were slumped. There was defeat showing in her green eyes as she cast an imploring look at Lassiter. Then she turned her horse and galloped off through the brush.

Sanlee, in a shaking voice, said, “Let's find that goddamned tree!”

“I say you better tie the bastard,” Shorty Doane spoke up.

Sanlee nodded. “Yeah, you're right, Shorty.”

That was as far as he got. Jake Semple, the man on Lassiter's right, the left-landed one, big and tough-looking, had bumped his horse inadvertently against Lassiter's mount.

Lassiter leaned in the saddle just enough. His right hand shot out, his fingers closing over the gleaming, ivory butt of a .45. He cocked and aimed straight at Sanlee's broad back, no more than four feet away. Sanlee was still hunched in the saddle, staring at the spot where Isobel Hartney had disappeared. The sounds of her horse could still be faintly heard. He seemed to be on the verge of going after her, to bring her back and force her to witness the grim business after all. The whole move on Lassiter's part had used up no more time than a man taking a deep breath. The metallic click of the revolver being cocked seemed loud as a gong in the stillness.

“Anybody make a move,” Lassiter sang out, “and Sanlee gets it right between the shoulder blades!”

Everyone stiffened. Sanlee looked over his shoulder, obeying Lassiter's warning to make no overt
move. He stared at the barrel of the revolver as if it were a cave inhabited by ferocious bears.

“Throw down your guns, every one of you,” Lassiter ordered crisply without a trace of fear or tension in his voice. But inwardly he was wound tight as a spring near the breaking point. “We're riding to town, you an' me, Sanlee. We're goin' to see Doc Clayburn. We're getting this witness business straightened out. Then you an' me . . . we're gonna face up to each other. And the best man will win. That'll be
me!
”

Sanlee, his head still twisted around in the awkward position of staring back, saw death in the cold blue eyes. He nodded his head. “Do what he says about the guns.” Sanlee's voice was tight.

As everyone stared, Lassiter slowly urged his horse forward until he was within touching distance of Sanlee. Any one of them could have shot him in the back, Pinto George thought. But they knew he wasn't bluffing. Sanlee would die. And then his damn half-sister, Millie Chandler, would likely take over Diamond Eight and they'd be working for a female. Gad!

It was better to go along with what Lassiter wanted for now. Something would turn up. There was just too many of them and only one Lassiter.

Sanlee seemed to voice George's thoughts. “Don't take a chance,” Sanlee told his men. “He means what he says.”

Lassiter had them drop their revolvers and rifles onto the road. Still keeping his gun trained on Sanlee's back, he ordered Pinto George to run a catch rope through all the trigger guards. And when it was done, George handed up the doubled catch rope with its burden of weapons to Lassiter.

“Get moving,” Lassiter ordered Sanlee. “But slowly. You try a wrong move and you'll be a bloody bundle of rags in the road.”

Sanlee nodded that he understood, then started his horse at a walk with Lassiter keeping pace. Lassiter's right arm and hand seemed as rigid and unyielding as the steel of the weapon that could shatter Sanlee's spine. He had looped the reins over the saddle horn and was guiding the black horse with his knee pressure. In his left hand he gripped the ends of the catch rope that held the weapons taken from the Diamond Eight men. The men were some distance back down the road, sitting in their saddles, staring at their guns being dragged at the end of the rope, digging into the dirt and sending up a small cloud of dust.

Shorty Doane did not share the majority viewpoint that if they just sat tight, they'd get their guns back and finish Lassiter. Watching his chance, saying nothing to the others, he suddenly cut away from the road and was quickly swallowed up in the brush.

Although Lassiter heard the sudden movement, he didn't shift his aim to the fleeing Doane. It would give Sanlee and the others a split second in which to act.

Twenty minutes passed agonizingly slow. Sanlee still rode ahead, his big body tense, the unwavering .45 trained on his back. In Lassiter's wake, still generating a cloud of dust, were the captured guns, dragging at the end of the long rope.

Finally, Lassiter looked back where the road straightened out after a series of turns that the natives called the snake tracks. There was no sign of the Diamond Eight bunch. But he sensed they were
back in the brush, hoping for a chance to get their hands on the weapons. A thin smile touched Lassiter's lips. He decided the weapons had been dragged far enough in loose dirt and sand.

“Hold it, Sanlee,” he ordered. And when Sanlee halted, Lassiter swung the heavy burden at the end of the rope far off the road and into clumps of tornillo.

When they were moving again, still at a walk, San-lee cleared his throat. “I got a deal for you, Lassiter.”

“I remember your first deal—a list of three men you wanted dead.” Lassiter's laughter was harsh.

“I figured you were just a cold-blooded killer an' would jump at it. That's what some folks claim about you, anyhow. Listen, here's what I got in mind. You turn me loose an' head out of Texas. I'll send you $10,000. All you got to do is name the bank.”

“You oughta be a tent-show comedian.”

“I ain't foolin', Lassiter. I'll write out an agreement an' make it legal.”

“Yeah. And tonight every star will fall out of the sky.”