Lassiter Tough Page 8

  The pain came after the brutal impact of the bottle. Lassiter lurched and his right arm collapsed, lifeless as a strip of rolled-up carpet. With the useless arm dangling, completely numbed, Lassiter fought off the attacker with his left.

  When Doane took a moment to smear a forearm across his bloodied face, Lassiter buried a left in the pit of his stomach. Doane lurched, both hands reaching out to clasp the tops of Lassiter’s shoulders. Doane’s weight was too much. Lassiter found himself slammed to the ground. In desperation, he tried to squirm out from under the great body that pinned him to earth. But he was trapped by two hundred and thirty-five pounds.

  Blood from Doane’s smashed nose splattered Lassiter’s cheek. Doane was reaching up between their bodies with both hands, trying to get Lassiter by the throat. Before he could be strangled, Lassiter gave a mighty wrench of his body and managed to twist free from under the weight.

  With the crowd cheering for him now, Lassiter staggered to his feet. Feeling had begun to return to his right arm. As he backed away from Doane, who was struggling up from the ground, he swung his arm in circles to restore the circulation. At last, knowing he had regained control of it, he began to hammer mercilessly at Doane’s jaw and midriff. From a corner of his eye, he glimpsed a look of agony on Millie’s sweet face. She stood with a small fist pressed against her lips.

  And as Doane staggered and Lassiter swung around to meet him head on, he saw Isobel Hartney at the edge of the noisy crowd. Her eyes were unusually wide with excitement, her red lips open.

  Another blow from behind, this one just below the shoulder blades, bent Lassiter almost double. As his upper body whipped downward, he was met by Doane’s uppercut—a blow so powerful that he was lifted off his feet and sent crashing to the ground. In his dimmed vision, Lassiter saw another bottle bouncing across the yard.

  But, in the roaring from the crowd, he realized more protests were being uttered at the unfairness. And again Brad Sanlee echoed them. But a look of concern that had been growing on his bearded face, as Doane seemed to falter, was replaced by one of relief.

  Doane was advancing on the prostrate Lassiter—a giant about to stomp a pygmy. As Doane drew back a booted foot near Lassiter’s skull, most everyone felt that it was all over. There were sobbing protests from some of the women to stop it, but no one seemed to hear. Half the crowd screamed encouragement to Lassiter, but the rest seemed mute, frozen by the tragedy they were about to witness.

  But at the last minute, Lassiter rose up from the ground. He caught the swinging leg with its boot toe that had been aimed at his temple. He clasped both hands around the leg and leaned on it with all his weight.

  Doane screamed in pain and fell heavily on his back. Onlookers screeched. Taking a deep breath, Lassiter scrambled to his feet. Doane was getting up slowly, flexing the right leg that had taken the full weight of Lassiter’s body. For a few moments a baffled look settled in what could still be seen of his eyes in puffy skin rapidly turning purple. Then all at once he seemed to snatch a revival of strength from the dusty air of the yard. He launched himself straight at Lassiter, obviously intending to end it.

  “Time’s up!” a voice cried. But no one paid any attention to Kilhaven at the table with a large gold watch that indicated the thirty minutes were up. His attempts to get the attention of the crowd were drowned out by a mighty roar. The two combatants stood toe to toe, slashing with fists at face and midsection.

  “Stay away from him, amigo!” Herrera yelled to Lassiter.

  But Lassiter knew he had to finish it. His knees were wobbly. His arms felt heavy as logs. But still he kept on. Then suddenly he was aware that Doane’s blows lacked their former strength.

  It was then he stepped back and struck twice at Doane’s jaw. But he was dismayed when the big man failed to topple. There was nothing to do but pursue him doggedly. Again Lassiter slammed him on the jaw, then drove a wicked left and right into the softness above the broad belt buckle. A sheet of perspiration was jarred from Doane’s lank hair. He lifted his face. He had lost a tooth. The gap showed through smashed lips. His mouth hung open as he staggered and gasped for breath. But Lassiter’s uppercut snapped it shut. Doane’s teeth slammed together with a click. All of Lassiter’s waning strength had gone into that terrific smash to the jaw.

  Doane took half a dozen staggering steps, his arms dangling at his sides. Then his eyes, in the mass of purplish flesh, turned upward. He collapsed.

  Lassiter reeled away. Shouting men had him by the arms. They were hustling him over to a bench at the nearest of the outdoor tables. He slumped down when his weary legs gave way. A glass of whiskey was thrust under his nose. But he shook his head.

  “Water … first,” he gasped.

  After drinking what seemed half a bucket from a yard pump, he reached for the glass of whiskey.

  Doane’s prostrate figure was ringed by the curious. Small boys stared in awe at the fallen gladiator and then at Lassiter on the bench, his long legs out-thrust. One eye was nearly closed. His forehead was deeply gashed. And there was a cut on the point of his chin. He was breathing heavily.

  Rep Chandler stood with an arm slung around the slim waist of his bride, looking dazed by it all. The excitement of his wedding, too much whiskey, then the tension of witnessing the monumental brawl between his new foreman and Shorty Doane had about done him in. He was breathing nearly as hard as Lassiter and had to sit down. His face was gray.

  Millie looked at him with concern. “You all right, Rep?”

  He nodded his head. “Fine, fine,” he mumbled.

  Then he levered himself to his feet and limped over to congratulate Lassiter.

  Lassiter looked up at the rancher out of hard blue eyes. “Where’s Sanlee?” he demanded softly.

  “Gone. Him an’ his men. Doane’s layin’ in the wagon that brought Millie.”

  “Too bad. I wanted to finish it with Sanlee… .”

  “You ain’t in no shape to stand up to him, Lassiter,” Chandler pointed out. “Your hand’s all swollen.”

  “Joe Tige’s got my gun.”

  “Well, was I you, I wouldn’t ask him for it,” Chandler said. “I’ll give you money to buy another. Tige can be mean.”

  Lassiter gave a hard laugh. He stood up and scanned the crowd to look for pinned-up pale hair and green eyes. “Maybe Isobel Hartney’s stomach won’t turn at sight of my face,” he muttered.

  Millie, standing next to him, said, “She went with Brad.” Then Millie added, “Stay away from her. She’s poison.”

  Millie was looking at him with concern in her eyes, or was it jealousy? In his condition, he couldn’t be sure. But in the next instant he negated jealousy. Of course not. Hell, she was a bride and it was her wedding day.

  After the historic battle, it was a subdued crowd that partook of the barbecue. Lassiter felt a great need for food and wolfed down two thick slabs of barbecued beef and a pound of beans. After numerous cups of black coffee laced with whiskey, he felt his strength returning.

  Making sure no one saw him except Luis Herrera, whom he gave a signal by lifting his chin, he slipped away. Herrera’s long dark face was grim as he found Lassiter waiting by the barn, away from the milling crowd.

  “What is it, amigo?” he asked tensely.

  “I need to borrow a gun. Tige took mine.”

  “Wherever you go, I go with you.” The segundo started away, but Lassiter caught him by an arm.

  “Just the gun, Luis,” he said, looking into the black eyes.

  Herrera blew out his breath, then hurried away. The guests were chattering among themselves near the tables. Dust kicked up during the fight had finally settled. The sky was Texas blue with only a fringe of dumpling clouds. A breeze had come up, cooling the air and carrying with it aromas from the barbecue pits.

  The musicians were playing El Niño, and guests were soon pairing off to dance to the lively tune.

  Herrera returned with a big .45 under his jacket. Gravely, he handed it over to Lassiter
.

  “You be careful,” the Mexican hissed in Spanish. “Today the saints were on your shoulder. But perhaps not twice.”

  Lassiter smiled, clapped him on the back and went to saddle his horse. But because of his condition, Herrera helped him.

  “Don’t tell anybody about the gun or that I’ve gone,” Lassiter warned from the saddle. And Herrera nodded that he understood, but still not liking it. He watched Lassiter take the town road and disappear into evening shadows.

  Lassiter kept his black horse to a walk because the jolting punished his already aching body. There was no hurry. If Sanlee was doing what he thought he’d be doing, it would probably continue for most of the night. Faint moonlight turned the brush into ghostly gargoyles.

  He wondered if he should give Sanlee time to put on his britches before he called him. Probably. He shouldn’t be found bare-assed naked in the vacant lot next to the Hartney Store. It would shock the town ladies who would have been awakened by the late-night pistol fire.

  When he finally saw the stark outlines of the store in night shadows, not a light showed downstairs nor in the windows of the second floor. Of course, Isobel Hartney being the modest soul she was wouldn’t want lamplight shed on her activities of the night. He gave a wry grin at the thought. Twisting his lips caused him pain and he swore softly.

  He didn’t know what color horse Sanlee had ridden away from Box C or whether he had ridden in a wagon. No horses were tied to the store’s hitching racks. Of course, if Sanlee intended to spend the night, which he would, then his horse or wagon was no doubt at the livery stable. Over at O’Leary’s on the far side of the street, the windows were still yellowed with lamplight. There were four horses at the rack in front.

  He rode over and dismounted stiffly, looped the reins over O’Leary’s tie rack, then ambled like a drunk through the swinging doors. A cowpuncher was slumped against the bar, his head down, singing nasally about his prairie rose.

  The three other patrons were paying no attention, talking among themselves. The bartender this night had a body that reminded Lassiter of a bundle of slats tied with string. At sight of Lassiter coming through the door, his mouth fell open.

  “What in hell happened to you?” he sang out.

  “Somebody swung open a barn door just as I was goin’ in,” Lassiter told him with a laugh.

  The singer broke off his song and looked around, as did the other customers. Lassiter stared at the four men, feeling disappointed he was so keyed up, that not a one of them was a Diamond Eight rider. In the strained silence that followed, with the men staring openly at his beaten face, he had two quick whiskeys. Throwing a coin on the bar, he then walked out in his stiff-legged stride.

  “Gad, he looked like he just escaped from hell with the devil’s pitchfork proddin’ his ass,” the barkeep breathed. “He had a look in his eye that freezes the gut.”

  “I know he froze mine,” said the long-legged singer in dusty range clothes. “Who is he, anyhow?”

  “Name of Lassiter. He works for Rep Chandler. There was a weddin’ out there today. I wonder what Lassiter’s doin’ in town?”

  “Well, whatever it is,” said one of the drinkers, “I’m sure glad the reason ain’t me.”

  Lassiter hammered on the rear door of the Hartney Store. “Miss Hartney, tell Sanlee I’ll be waitin’ for him in the lot next to your store!”

  A dead silence followed. A faint breeze was blowing odors from the stable two blocks away. In the distance came a faint yip of coyotes. It woke up somebody’s mule and it began to bray.

  A window was lifted upstairs and a head with long, wheat-colored hair was thrust out. “Sanlee isn’t here,” she said in a loud whisper. “Wait and I’ll be right down.”

  Two jolts of whiskey at O’Leary’s in his condition had hit him hard. In a few minutes the rear door was unbolted. Isobel Hartney, wearing a green wrapper, stared in surprise at the shiny .45 pointed at her stomach.

  Lassiter said, “Oh, I figured Sanlee might be right behind you.”

  “Come in, Lassiter.” She stood aside. “And please put up the gun. I’d rather you didn’t shoot me.” He could see her white teeth in the gloom of the hallway. Her laughter was soft.

  She stood aside while he debated. Then with a shrug, he stepped in and she closed the door. He stuck Herrera’s gun in the belt of his trousers. She took his hand in warm fingers and led him toward a flight of stairs.

  “Where’s Sanlee?” he asked as he started to climb.

  “Home, I expect.”

  “You left together. So I was told.”

  “He was in a frightful mood.”

  “I can imagine. He’s the kind that hates to lose.”

  “And you presumed you’d find him here.” They were at the top of the stairs. “You presume a lot, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “I only add up what I see with my eyes.”

  “Then your vision is faulty,” she said lightly.

  He was led to a spacious bedroom where she pushed him gently down on a bed with rumpled covers. The bed was warm from her body.

  Then she knelt before him, tugging at one of his boots, and looked up into his swollen face. “With us, there’s no preamble, Lassiter,” she said. “No coyness of courtship.”

  She got one of his boots off. It thumped to the floor.

  Her voice tightened when she said, “Today you were magnificent. No Roman princess in ancient times ever longed for her gladiator as I longed for you today.”

  “You speak right out, don’t you?”

  “The academy for young ladies which I attended tried to teach us that we had an equal place in the world of men, and not to bury our desires.” The second boot was off.

  “Your parents didn’t care about what you were learning?” he asked her smiling face.

  “My father. Mother was gone long before him. Had he known, however, he would have yanked me out of that school by the hair of my head.”

  As she spoke of her school and the progressive headmistress, she was tugging at his clothing. And when at last he lay back on the bed, she touched him, saying in awe, “You’re everything I imagined.”

  Part of the enjoyment of the night, he supposed, was the fact that he was driving a spike into Sanlee’s pride. He didn’t believe for a minute what she’d implied about him having an overactive imagination where she and the Diamond Eight owner were concerned.

  “My horse,” he said, rolling aside finally in sheer exhaustion.

  “Stay where you are. I’ll put it away for you.”

  Before he could protest, she was gone. His eyes closed and he was breathing heavily.

  It seemed hours later that he felt her creep back into bed. He fell asleep again with her hand resting on him.

  When he awoke again the experience was even more rewarding than before.

  It was getting to be daylight and he could look down into her face and see lips faintly parted, the green eyes awash with contentment.

  “I feel completely shattered,” she said softly. “You’re the best thing that has happened to me … ever.”

  Although she begged him to stay, he said it was impossible. For one thing, her clerks would soon be reporting for work, he pointed out, and it wouldn’t be right to possibly expose her to gossip. Although he sensed there was probably already much of that where Sanlee was concerned.

  “What would you have done if you’d found Brad last night?” she asked curiously as he was ready to leave. She was sitting up in bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, her long, pale hair loose at bare shoulders.

  “Tried my best to kill him,” Lassiter said shortly.

  “That was a cruel trick he played on you.”

  “And you knew about it.” He reminded her of their brief conversation prior to the fight.

  “Brad told me he planned something—a drinking contest between the two of you was what I gathered. Well, I couldn’t see any real harm in that, although I wanted to warn you to be on your guard. Brad can be tricky.”
/>   “Yeah. Good night, Isobel.”

  She laughed gaily. “Good morning, you mean. The most wonderful bright morning of my life. When will I see you again?”

  “I’ll be in.” He kissed her and left.

  By not being available last night, Brad Sanlee’s life had quite possibly been spared—or Lassiter’s spared, if Sanlee had proved to be faster on the draw. Lassiter thought about it as he rode home in the clear dawn light. Birds chirped in cottonwoods and huisache blossoms scented the air.

  His experience with Isobel Hartney had cleared his mind, restored his body—at least to an extent. He found that he liked Isobel. At first he had considered her haughty, but she wasn’t at all. In certain situations she was a tigress with velvet claws.

  At least he was getting back at Sanlee. In one way it was evening things up for Vince Tevis. And eventually Sanlee would get wind of it and come looking for him. Then would come the time for wiping the slate clean for Vince Tevis.

  Finish Sanlee—or be finished—whichever way the cards happened to fall on that day of violence that was to come… .

  12

  *

  Millie lay in the big bed, staring at moving shadows on the ceiling made by the shifting cottonwood branches in the breeze that had come up after midnight. From the yard, there still came sounds of revelry. Men who seldom got together with neighbors were reluctant to cease the flow of whiskey which was a stimulus for talk. An argument was going on concerning the merits of Sam Houston. All too familiar, for Millie had heard it often when at last, upon the death of her mother, she had been moved to the big Sanlee house. Her late father had been a staunch supporter of Houston and anyone who held a differing view of the patriot of Texas was wearing the devil’s forked tail.

  As she lay in the darkness, wearing her bridal nightgown, she heard the arguments taper off and she thought, thank God.

  But voices soon rose again. This time the subject was General Santa Anna de Lopez who had stormed the Alamo. But there was no argument there as everyone agreed. And the recollections became so heated that she was afraid that possibly the Anglo guests, so inflamed by alcohol and revived hatreds, would march to the bunkhouse to take out their anger on the vaqueros.