Lassiter Tough Read online

  “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.

  Lassiter, wearing a black suit, came face to face with Sanlee, who greeted him enthusiastically. A beaming Sanlee thrust out his big hand.

  With so many looking on, Lassiter reluctantly shook hands with him. Smiling faintly, Lassiter studied the gray eyes, wondering just what really went on in that crafty Sanlee brain.

  Men hustled Sanlee away for a drink where other male guests were crowded around a long table holding bins of bottled beer, cooled by well water. There were jugs of whiskey and bottles of wine from San Antone. Children ran whooping through the crowd until it came time for the ceremony. Then they were shushed into silence.

  Rep Chandler, in a dark suit and white shirt, was determined not to use his cane during the ceremony. He had taken a lot of joshing from the men on the subject of his bad leg curtailing activities on the wedding night.

  Millie’s face was pale but beautiful. However, her dark eyes seemed sad to Lassiter. He felt sorry for her, sorry she hadn’t been bold enough to take the gamble and get away from her half-brother once and for all. But apparently she lacked the courage and now it would soon be too late. She and her new husband would be Brad Sanlee’s neighbors, for better or for worse. Lassiter hoped for her sake it wasn’t the latter.

  He stepped from the house with her. Not a word was spoken as they walked along an aisle formed by the beaming guests. Some of the women, however, were already red-eyed, a preamble to frontier tears shed equally between funerals and weddings.

  The Reverend Grant, with a thin face slick with perspiration and a wilted collar, kept glancing at a large gold watch. He had a stage to catch, and this thankfully kept the ceremony brief.

  When it was over and everyone was swarming up to offer congratulations and men to kiss the bride, Lassiter backed away, deciding to forego that pleasure. He had taken only a few steps when her soft voice arrested him.

  “Lassiter,” she called with false gaiety. “Isn’t my husband’s foreman going to do me honor?” She held out her hands to him when the crowd parted to let her through.

  “Of course,” Lassiter said with a stiff smile.

  He met her warm lips with his own. Her dark eyes glowed. As he felt the pressure of her softness against him, he experienced a swift reaction. Careful, Lassiter, he warned himself. Don’t start building foolish dreams in your head. She’s another man’s wife… .

  10

  *

  As Millie moved down the line of waiting and eager males, Lassiter saw Isobel Hartney watching him. She was wearing a dress of green silk that brought out the fire in her eyes. Her lovely face was lighted with a smile as she walked over.

  “I haven’t seen you since that terrible day in town,” she said, coming close, her clothing making a soft rustle. “Two dead men.” She shivered and hunched her splendid shoulders. “How fortunate that Brad saw that other man about to put a bullet in your back.”

  Lassiter nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “I have a feeling you think perhaps Brad prompted that horrible business. But I assure you he didn’t. I saw the whole thing through a window.”

  “I didn’t realize Sanlee had a witness,” he said evenly.

  “You’re a very interesting man, Lassiter. Brad has mentioned you several times.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he said with a hard smile. He was remembering that Sanlee had told him about wedding plans for an Isobel. This one, of course.

  “Contrary to what you might think, Brad likes you.”

  It crossed Lassiter’s mind that Sanlee had put her up to paying him a compliment. But why? he wondered. He was jostled by exuberant wedding guests moving about the tree-shaded yard.

  Isobel was studying him through pale lashes, a faint frown on her vibrant face. “Brad has planned some entertainment that he claims you might find interesting.”

  Something in her green eyes alerted him. “What kind of entertainment?”

  But before she could reply, Sanlee came up to lay a large hand on the green sleeve of her dress. “Get yourself some whiskey, Lassiter,” he bellowed half-drunkenly. He gestured at the table where men crowded like flies around a honey pot. Sanlee gave Lassiter a crooked smile, a broad wink, then moved away with Isobel Hartney, his walk unsteady. Was he really that drunk?

  Lassiter couldn’t help but rivet his eyes on Isobel’s back as she moved through the crowd, noticing how the green dress clung, full at the shoulders, nipped in at the waist and then spreading over voluptuous hips. Halfway across the yard, she looked back at him, a little apprehensively, he thought. Then Sanlee tightened his arm in hers and hurried her away.

  That day Lassiter hadn’t intended to be armed. But he was alerted by what Isobel might have been about to say when interrupted by Sanlee’s sudden appearance. He went to his quarters, a lean-to adjoining the main barn. There he got his .44 from a desk drawer, stuck it in his waistband, then buttoned the black coat. Everyone had agreed to Chandler’s request that all guns be checked at the barn. Late arrivals were dropping off their weapons to a friend of Chandler’s, who tagged each of them. They were hung on nails by the trigger guards. Nearly one whole wall was taken up with the many firearms, Lassiter noted as he passed the open doors.

  Feeling more comfortable with a gun under his coat, Lassiter walked away from the barn doors. He noticed that women, mostly in summer dresses, some holding parasols, were hurrying across the yard to gather in a knot with the men. Quite a crowd was growing around someone standing on a box. Who it was Lassiter couldn’t tell because a low-hanging cottonwood branch cut off the upper half of a male body. All Lassiter could see was a pair of black trousers and polished boots.

  The unknown man on the box was gesturing and what he said brought a cheer from the men, exclamations of surprise and gasps from the ladies. There was much applause.

  Curious, Lassiter drew closer. Above the hand-clapping and loud voices he heard his name mentioned by the speaker. He couldn’t identify the voice because of all the noise.

  Lassiter halted. A warning like a red-hot wire whipped through him. He saw Millie Sanlee—Chandler now—c
atch sight of him and squirm her way through the crowd. With the train of her wedding dress looped over one arm, her white skirts lifted, she came at a run.

  “Lassiter,” she gasped. “Brad’s planning the most ghastly thing… . You’ve got to get out of here.”

  “What ghastly thing?” Even though he still could not see the speaker, he knew now it was Sanlee. As the crowd listened now in silence, Lassiter recognized the booming voice.

  “… and don’t forget to bet generously,” Sanlee was shouting, “because the two combatants have promised that half of all winnings go into a fund for the widows and orphans of San Antone… .”

  “So that’s it!” Lassiter bared his teeth.

  “Lassiter!” a short, bony man shouted, beckoning. “Sanlee wants you. Step up!”

  And Sanlee brushed aside the cottonwood branch and leaned over so he could see Lassiter. At Sanlee’s side towered Shorty Doane, his scarred lips smiling broadly. Doane had already removed the coat to his Sunday suit. He was rolling up a shirt sleeve on a muscular forearm.

  A buxom woman in a tight-fitting brown dress wailed, “Oh, I hope there won’t be blood!”

  “None to speak of, Mrs. Lester,” Sanlee called to her good-naturedly, which brought a bellow of laughter from the men. “Kilhaven is gonna keep time. The fight’s for half an hour. At the end of that time the winner will be named—unless one of ’em ends up cold as an icy rock.”

  More laughter.

  “Better get your coat off, Lassiter!” Sanlee called, still holding aside the cottonwood branch. His teeth gleamed through his beard.

  Some of those nearby were turning to look from Lassiter to Doane, assessing each. A man voiced what was undoubtedly on the minds of many. “Sanlee, your man’s a heap bigger than Chandler’s. How about Chuck Hale? He’s more Lassiter’s size.”

  “Chandler’s already agreed to Doane!” Sanlee shouted.

  Lassiter’s angry eyes searched through the crowd. “Chandler, damn him… .”

  But Millie was clutching at Lassiter’s arm, whispering, “Rep didn’t know anything about it, Lassiter.”

  Chandler saw him at that moment. He started limping toward him, a look of concern on his flushed face. “Hell, Lassiter, don’t think I had a hand in this.”

  But it was mostly drowned out by excited voices from the crowd anticipating a spectacle.

  “I don’t figure to stand up to Doane,” Lassiter stated flatly, “on this day or any other!” His voice was cold. He was standing at the edge of the jabbering crowd. Slowly, he backed up until cottonwood branches poked him between the shoulder blades. When he started to step away from the trees, something hard was pressed against his back—not a tree limb this time, but something metallic.

  He tensed, ready to spin around. Then it came to him that putting up a fight with a gun could endanger innocents—Millie included.

  Whipped to a frenzy of excitement by Brad Sanlee’s exhortations, men were crowding up to one of the tables to place their bets. Even though some of the bravest of the excited women indicated a desire to wager, they had to abstain. Other ladies who had not imbibed so freely of wines pointed out that to do so would be most unseemly. So their husbands had the full responsibility of betting money a lot of them could ill afford. But purse strings had been loosened by whiskey and the excitement during a celebration that came all too seldom to break the drabness of their daily lives. And so they were determined to enjoy the day. And wasn’t it for a good cause? What more worthy than the plight of widows and orphans?

  Lassiter stood with every muscle tensed as the crowd swirled away from him toward the gaming table. He knew without turning his head the nature of the object pressing so hard against his back. And he recognized the warning voice; it belonged to Joe Tige, one of Sanlee’s men.

  “Stand hitched,” Tige hissed from the protection of cottonwoods, “or I’ll bust your back with a bullet. I’m takin’ your gun.”

  Arthur Hobart, the banker, came by. He was dry-washing his hands, grinning at Lassiter, not guessing the predicament he was in, probably not caring.

  “It looks like you’re in for it,” he called and hurried into the crowd.

  As a hand stole around Lassiter’s right side and fingers groped at his belt, he again considered making a play. But Millie was directly in front of him, her back turned as she stood with fists clenched, watching the jam of men around the table. And nearby women and children were gathered as husbands and fathers piled silver and gold on the table to be placed by Kilhaven in an iron box.

  Lassiter stood perfectly still and felt the .44 removed from his waistband. How did Tige know he was armed? he asked himself. Possibly, Tige had seen him rush to his quarters and suspected the reason for the haste.

  Tige stepped back into the trees. Lassiter turned his head, but the burly Diamond Eight rider was gone.

  Then Lassiter noticed all eyes on him. Sanlee was yelling, his gray eyes merry above the reddish beard. “Off with your coat, Lassiter!”

  Millie was holding the train of her gown in a trembling hand. At her side, Rep looked around at Lassiter. For the first time, Lassiter realized the rancher was quite drunk. A profusion of small broken veins were fiery red across his nose and cheeks.

  “I’m sorry ’bout this, Lashiter,” Chandler said, the words slurred.

  “It’s my goddamn brother who’s behind it!” Millie cried.

  “I will have no wife of mine cussin’,” Chandler said stiffly. A sloppy smile was stretched across his lips, but reddened eyes advised that the admonition hadn’t been made in jest.

  Men were pushing the crowd back so that a cleared space was formed in the big yard between the east side of the house and the main barn.

  “Amigo, stand up to him!” Luis Herrera was yelling. Vaqueros joined in with shouts of encouragement, some of it in Spanish.

  A scowling Lassiter felt himself being pushed toward the clearing where Brad Sanlee still stood on a heavy packing crate, his thick legs braced, wearing a malicious grin.

  Lassiter broke away from those shoving at his back. He strode purposefully toward the big man on the box, saying, “It won’t work, Sanlee.”

  “Let’s see you get outta this one, Lassiter. It’s your finish!” This was spoken so low that only those in the immediate vicinity heard it above the babble from onlookers. Brows were raised and glances exchanged.

  But as Lassiter reached out for one of Sanlee’s ankles, intending to pull him down from the packing case, lights exploded in his head. It came on the heels of a tremendous blow to his left rib cage, which forced the air out of his lungs. Breath came gushing out. Pain ripped across his chest. He saw the surprised faces of the crowd tilt first one way, then the other. And the earth itself was tipping. As he fought for balance, there was a second savage blow, this one aimed for the jaw. But at the last moment, instinct caused Lassiter to bring his head down sharply. Knuckes crashed instead against his forehead. For the second time, his skull was filled with a vision of Shorty Doane’s scarred features wavering before his eyes.

  “Duck, Lassiter, duck!” It was Luis Herrera shouting through cupped hands, the voice barely audible above the hubbub. Women were screaming as Doane waded in, his huge fists lifted for the kill. Even hurt as he was, Lassiter couldn’t help but realize that the intention was for him not to leave this yard alive.

  With his head buzzing strangely, Lassiter began backing, slowly at first, just barely keeping out of range of Doane’s superior reach. Inevitably, Doane finally caught up with him. But at the last instant, Lassiter whipped his face out of range. He literally felt a blast of air as the mighty fist whipped past his ear… .

  11

  *

  After backing once around the arena, with Doane stumbling after him like an enraged bear, Lassiter found that his head was clearing. And his arms no longer seemed weighted with heavy chains. He could breathe again without pain. He wondered vaguely if the tremendous blow to his side had splintered ribs. There was no time to worry about
it now because he was fighting for his life. Brad Sanlee intended to see him stomped to death before this gathering of wedding celebrants. And there would be nothing done about it. The likely explanation to the law would be that Doane got a little overzealous in a fair fight—in case a sheriff was even interested. Sanlee’s word would probably be accepted without further investigation.

  “Brad, you had no right!” It was Millie’s stricken voice. But in the uproar that followed, the rest of what she said was lost. Because Doane was charging again, coming with the force of a wild-eyed ladino straight out of the brush, both fists swinging. Still Lassiter kept out of his reach, the blows whistling ominously just short of his nose, chin or mouth.

  But suddenly Lassiter knew it was time to go on the offensive, if ever. Abruptly he whipped aside to send a left smashing into Doane’s ribs. The big man, charging straight ahead, lost a step and his knees almost folded.

  “A sample of what you gave me,” Lassiter said through his teeth, and measured Doane’s wide face. His right opened up a cheekbone. As blood spurted, his left found Doane flush on the mouth. Doane’s head snapped back, surprise replacing a gloating triumph.

  It was a late-nineteenth-century version of David and Goliath played before over a hundred spectators gathered in the yard, every man shouting, the women screaming. Several times the crowd was forced to back hurriedly when the combatants reeled from the cleared area.

  When Lassiter paused for breath, his fists aching from hammering at the big man, he saw that his opponent’s face was smeared with blood. But Lassiter had taken his own punishment. There was a sharp pain in his jaw and again it was hard to draw a deep breath.

  Doane was coming on relentlessly when Lassiter brought him to his toes with a vicious uppercut. As Doane wavered, Lassiter heard a shouted warning at his back. And on the heels of it something crashed into his right shoulder.

  “A bottle!” a man cried. “Somebody throwed a bottle!”

  Brad Sanlee shouted indignantly, “We’ll have none of that!” But he was grinning and nodded at the burly Joe Tige, who was edging back into the crowd. An empty whiskey bottle went bouncing across the yard, glittering in the harsh sunlight.