At the Diamond Eight camp, the men were in various positions on the ground, some sitting cross-legged, others leaning against tree trunks or a wheel of the chuck wagon. Each man had a tin plate of food in his lap.
An ominous silence fell over the crew as an angry Lassiter rode into camp. Doug Krinkle nudged Shorty Doane, who still wore a dirty bandage around the head Lassiter had struck with his gun barrel. They looked over at Brad Sanlee, who sat alone, wolfing food from a plate that rested on his uplifted knees.
Sanlee’s large head came up at sight of Lassiter and his bearded jaws stopped chewing the tough beef.
Lassiter’s glance at the tent was not lost on Sanlee. The flaps were still down. Lassiter wondered if she’d had anything to eat.
The old cook, Tim Marshal, had just finished ladling a plateful of beef and beans for himself. He sat down on the ground as Lassiter reined in nearby. “You got an almighty nerve comin’ over here like this,” the old man hissed. “You lose somethin’ over here today?”
“Came to borrow some coffee beans,” Lassiter said roughly, his eyes still on Sanlee some distance away.
Instantly, Sanlee became the jovial ranch owner. He beamed across the shadowed camp at Lassiter. “How come your cook didn’t come to do the borrowin’? A foreman sure don’t do it, Lassiter. Mine sure wouldn’t, if I had one. But maybe Rep Chandler hired himself a different breed. You think that might be it, Lassiter?” He grinned, his teeth gleaming through the beard. Some of his crew wore tense smiles. Others seemed uneasy. The agreement among the five ranchers for roundup was that there was to be no trouble of a personal nature for the duration. There was time enough to settle grievances afterward. Too much time had been lost in the past, too many men injured, to put up with violence any longer when they were working cattle. The agreement had been drawn up by Marcus Kilhaven and the others had signed it.
In the uncomfortable silence, Lassiter was sure he saw one of the tent flaps move slightly. Was he under observation by the dark-haired girl?
Brad Sanlee lounged on the ground some four feet from the front of the tent, his long legs now outstretched, his back resting against the trunk of a sturdy mesquite. Lassiter skirted the semicircle of cowhands. Their knives and forks scraping the tin plates was a dull metallic sound in the twilight. Some of them were slurping the last spoonful of watery beans. But all eyes were on Lassiter as he rode over to where Sanlee was eating. Lassiter dismounted.
“Rep Chandler hired himself a foreman,” Lassiter said quietly. “And I’m it. But I used the coffee beans as an excuse. I wanted to have a talk.”
He dropped the reins of his horse on the damp ground, his gaze boring into the gray eyes across from him. He could end it now, call Sanlee on the death of Vince Tevis and get it over with. Or should he hold his cards close to the vest and play each hand as it was dealt? He decided on the latter choice.
With a fierce grin, Sanlee jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the tent. “You wanta know about her. That’s why you come.”
“You read my mind,” Lassiter said.
“Ever hear what happened to the cat that was curious?”
Lassiter’s smile was cold. “This is some different.”
“You’re a cool one, Lassiter.” Sanlee gave a short laugh. “Guess I’ll believe it next time somebody says you got ice water in your veins instead of hot blood.”
“I’ve got a strong hunch she’s being held here. ‘Against her will’ is the way it’s usually put.” There it was, more words than he had intended to use. But the whole damn thing was getting away from him—mistreatment of the girl and the cold-blooded killing of Vince Tevis cracked the dam of his resolve.
Sanlee seemed to think about it. He cocked his head at Lassiter, who stood a few feet away, hands at his sides, feet widespread, nothing to read on the dark features. Sanlee used the last biscuit to mop up what remained of his supper. His strong jaws chomped on stringy beef. Then he tossed his plate aside, where it lay shining dully in a clump of weeds. As he wiped his mouth with the back of the left hand, his right hand darted to his belt. The move was as quick as that of a striking rattler. He had a gun half-drawn, then noticed that Lassiter’s .44 was already in hand. The metallic sound as it was cocked seemed almost as explosive in the silent camp as a thunderclap.
“I shoulda remembered you got speed along with your nerve.” Sanlee chuckled as he let his gun slide back into the holster.
The nearest man, some thirty feet away, sat rigidly in the twilight, his mouth open. Beyond him the rest of the crew stared. The old cook, Tim Marshal, on hands and knees, was reaching out for a rifle on the ground.
Sanlee caught the movement from a corner of his eye. “Easy, Tim,” he called over to the cook. “We got a sidewinder in camp. Let’s step real careful.”
The old man sank back to the ground and wrapped his bony arms around his knees.
“Put away your gun, Lassiter,” Sanlee said jovially. “You pullin’ it so free an’ easy is liable one day to get you in a pile of trouble.”
“Not so far.” Lassiter holstered his .44. For a minute he had let his temper get away from him, but now it was checked once again. There would come a day when everything would fall into place. And he would know that it was time to settle everything with this hulking killer sitting hunched across from him in the deepening shadows.
Lassiter accepted Sanlee’s invitation to “set an’ talk.” He sank to his knees in a position where he could keep an eye on the crew. There were scraping sounds of sand on tin as they cleaned their plates. But as they worked at the daily chore, their eyes flicked to Lassiter.
“Didn’t Chandler tell you about that gal in the tent?” Sanlee asked, that hard smile still on his bearded face.
“Haven’t seen Rep since roundup started.”
“Then I’ll tell you.” Sanlee’s voice lowered so that not even the nearest man could have overheard. “Millie’s my kid sister. You believe that?”
“If you say so.”
“Since my pa’s been gone, I done my damnedest to keep her in hand. Most of the time I do. But about three weeks ago she run off.” Sanlee’s voice hardened but he failed to notice the change that had come over Lassiter’s face. “She run off with a no-good bastard. . . .” Sanlee didn’t go on with it.
Lassiter, his heart hammering, vowed not to let himself come unraveled as memories of that tragic evening in New Mexico came flooding back.
“This fella she ran off with,” Lassiter managed to say, “she figured to marry him?”
Sanlee looked up, his eyes ugly. “I got my own idea on who she’s gonna marry. You understand, Lassiter?”
“Looks like she’s got nothing to say about it.”
“Not one damn solitary thing. I aim to look after my little sister an’ see that she ties up with a solid citizen of Texas. Millie’s gonna marry your boss.”
“Rep Chandler?” Lassiter asked in genuine surprise. He was remembering how young the girl had seemed. At least he now knew her name. “Guess it’s your business,” he went on carefully, “but it seems to me kinda like tryin’ to squeeze together May and December.”
“She needs an older fella like Rep to tame her.”
“I see. . . .”
“Once my sister an’ Rep are harnessed, the two outfits will be one, you might say. His an’ mine.”
Lassiter couldn’t help a short laugh. “So that’s it. Use your sister to get your hands on Chandler’s ranch.”
Sanlee seemed to take no offense, and said, “Had the idea for quite a spell. Kinda took your breath away, eh?” the rancher said with sly amusement. He plucked a green weed and stuck a stem into a corner of his bearded mouth. “Women are bought an’ sold the same as slaves. You understand, Lassiter?”
“Hardly.”
“Well, let me explain. I got somethin’ Rep Chandler wants. He wants a hot-blooded young female an’ Millie’s all of that from what I been hearin’ since she was fourteen or thereabouts. An’ Chandler’s got somethin’ I want. His ranch added to mine will give me a sizeable chunk of the brasada.”
“That figures,” Lassiter said evenly. “What if I told Rep of your plans?”
“Go ahead. His heart’s pumpin’ so hard for my little sister he wouldn’t even hear you.” Sanlee leaned forward. “That’s why I got Millie out here where I can keep an eye on her. You understand?”
“You put it plain enough.” Lassiter was barely able to conceal his contempt, his outright hatred because of what had happened to his friend up in New Mexico.
Lassiter got to his feet and Sanlee stood up, his big body unwinding slowly, taller than Lassiter by an inch or so. Old Tim Marshal had thrown fresh fuel on the cook fire. Firelight stained the growing darkness and wood smoke stung Lassiter’s nostrils. Every eye was on the two big men facing each other in the waning light.
Sanlee spoke in a rush of words for Lassiter’s ears only. “I like the way you stand up to a man, Lassiter. Once Millie marries Rep, I’ll hire you on to ramrod the two outfits. . . .”
“I’ll be moving along by then. I’m a drifter at heart. . . .”
But Sanlee shook his head stubbornly. “I got me a woman I figure to marry. An’ she wants to go out to Frisco for a spell. An’ I aim to oblige. But I need a tough man to leave behind while I show Isobel some of the world she’s got an itch to see. Don’t make up your mind now, Lassiter, but keep it under your hat. We’ll talk later.”
Abruptly, Sanlee stalked over to the cook fire, where he picked up a steaming coffeepot from the coals. As Lassiter rode out, he was filling a tin cup.
From the edge of camp, Lassiter glanced over his shoulder at Millie’s tent, which could barely be seen now in the darkness. It was close enough to where Sanlee had been sitting for her to have overheard every word. Not only had she been thwarted when she apparently had run off with Vince Tevis, but now her brother was going to use her as a bargaining chip to merge Chandler’s Box C with Diamond Eight.
Pity for her plight deepened in him. He was remembering the excitement in Rep Chandler’s voice when talking about marrying again. At the time Lassiter had had no idea the middle-aged rancher had his eye on a girl Millie Sanlee’s age.
After roundup he’d warn Chandler of Sanlee’s intentions toward Box C. Chandler might believe him. On the other hand, his reaction might be the same as it had been when Lassiter mentioned the three names Sanlee had written out.
“Brad was just joshin’,” Chandler had said.
Well, Lassiter would finish roundup and drive the Box C herd to railhead where they would be sold, as per his agreement with Chandler. Then he would do what he could for Millie.
Meanwhile, he’d let Sanlee sweat. On the day he told Chandler he was quitting, he would corner Sanlee and settle up for the death of Vince Tevis.
Then he would be off to new horizons, providing he had his usual gunfighter’s luck against Sanlee. Of course, he was under no illusions, knowing that quite possibly one day he would meet a better man.
But he hoped when the gun smoke cleared, Sanlee would be dead. Millie would probably inherit Diamond Eight. At least she’d have that much.
With that settled in his mind, he ate supper and rolled up in his blankets. Sleep didn’t come easily and it seemed only an hour had passed before Herrera was shaking him awake to take a turn as nighthawk with the herd.
Two days later, Ad Deverax was back in the Santos country, after a lengthy detour all the way down from Ardon, New Mexico. . . .