“I’m callin’ you, Lassiter!” It was the screech of Doug Krinkle in an off-key voice. He had been running from the protection of the shed along the west side of the store. Now he had halted, his mouth hanging open, probably because the man on the roof had fired too soon and taken him by surprise. Now Krinkle was snapping into action and apparently going ahead with the plan, whatever it was. But his gun was already out and you don’t call a man unless your weapon is holstered. Obviously, he had been told to shout the challenge and so he had done so, belatedly.
He was coming at a run, firing at a corner of the store where Lassiter had ducked. Millie was crouched near the door. Women inside were still hysterical. Rep Chandler had backed his team and was reaching on the floorboards for a rifle. Adobe chips were flying as bullets dug into the wall of the store, which were fired erratically by a nervous Krinkle. The man was running hard now; Lassiter could hear his foot-steps. And in another handful of seconds, Millie and Rep Chandler could be in danger.
Krinkle’s third shot was aimed chest high as he swung away from the store for a glimpse of his target. But the bullet went screaming in ricochet off the wall. At that moment Lassiter sprang into a crouching run into the open before Krinkle could fire again. He glimpsed the look of surprise on Krinkle’s face and saw the man recover quickly to try and bring down Lassiter’s sprinting figure with a snap shot. But it missed. As Krinkle thumbed back the hammer for another desperate try, Lassiter shot him twice—once high in the chest, the second just above the belt buckle.
As Krinkle collapsed, someone yelled a warning. Lassiter spun around in time to see Brad Sanlee just kicking through the weeds of the vacant lot. He held a big .45. In his wild run, Sanlee’s hat sailed off and his coarse, reddish hair bounced at each step.
The .45 came up, but not aimed at Lassiter. Sanlee fired into the weeds. “He was tryin’ for your back, Lassiter!” Sanlee shouted. “I got him for you!”
Men were coming at a run, some of them crowding around the one who had fallen from the roof. Sanlee had just fired into the side of the skull.
A white-faced Millie came to grip Lassiter by his arm. “Are you all right?” she breathed.
He nodded and saw a stricken Rep Chandler at a limping run toward Millie. Lassiter gave her a shove toward the rancher and turned to look at Krinkle. He pushed through a circle of men to stare down at the crumpled figure.
“Dead as last night’s beer,” a man said with a shaky laugh. “That was some shootin’, mister,” he added to Lassiter.
Lassiter smeared a shirt sleeve across his forehead and watched Sanlee lumber up.
“That was close,” Sanlee said, breathing hard from the run. “I saw him about to make a try for your back.”
The man was already dead. I’ll bet on it!
Lassiter kept his thoughts to himself. Swiftly, he punched out empties from his smoking .44. They bounced along the hard ground, then he reloaded.
A round man with a jiggling belly under an immaculate white shirt came hurrying up to stand next to Sanlee. “I’m Arthur Hobart of the bank,” he said to Lassiter. “You certainly owe Mr. Sanlee a vote of thanks. He saved your bacon.”
Lassiter wondered about that. The bank was beyond the saddle shop. But, of course, Hobart might have been in the street when the shootout took place. He saw Hobart turn away, give Sanlee a small smile, a pat on the arm, then walk away through the crowd. In Lassiter’s mind, a strong affiliation had been established between Diamond Eight and the Bank of Santos.
Sanlee was helping his sister into Chandler’s wagon, where she sat, stiff as a mud wall, pale about the mouth.
“I reckon Krinkle carried a grudge on account of you messin’ him up the other day,” Sanlee said over his shoulder to Lassiter. “The other fella was his no-account cousin. I reckon Krinkle talked him into backin’ his hand.”
“I reckon,” Lassiter said dryly, his eyes as cold as a sleet-driven sky.
“You could use a drink, Lassiter,” Sanlee suggested. “Rep’s got some talkin’ to do to my sister. Let’s you an’ me go over to O’Leary’s an’ . . .”
“Suit yourself,” Sanlee said shortly. He walked over to where a ring of men were staring down at Krinkle. “Damn it, Doug,” he said to the corpse. “You an’ your temper. I told you that holdin’ a grudge can get a man killed. An’ it sure did.”
Lassiter walked stiffly to where he had left his horse. Millie was rattling away in Chandler’s wagon, and Sanlee was crossing to the saloon.
As Lassiter untied the reins at the rear of the store, Isobel Hartney opened the back door and leaned out, blond and beautiful. She was wearing her apron again and a stub of yellow pencil was behind an ear.
“The other day you were lucky, Lassiter. Today you had even more luck. That’s twice. I dread to think of a third time.”
“Tell you the truth, I’m not lookin’ forward to it.”
He gave her a tight smile and rode out.
Only after a mile or so from town did he begin to let down. He could have used the whiskey Sanlee had suggested. But Lassiter had no intention of drinking with him. He knew as sure as there was sun in the Texas sky that Sanlee had put the pair up to it. Kill both of them, Chandler and Lassiter. Then Sanlee could bargain away his half-sister in another direction, perhaps with one of the ranchers whose names had appeared on the death list.
Strangely enough, the cattle drive to railhead went without incident. With two money sacks holding $74,000 in cash, Lassiter made a much faster return trip. While away, he had done a lot of thinking and concluded that his obligation to Rep Chandler had been fulfilled. It was time to settle the business he still felt he had with Sanlee, despite Millie’s insistence that her brother was not involved in the death of Vince Tevis. With the Sanlee matter out of the way at last, he would head for Arizona. He liked the country and had friends there.
Upon his arrival back at Box C, he was surprised to find the ranch yard strung with Chinese lanterns. There was a bustle of activity, men moving long tables into the yard. The Romero brothers, who did all the barbecuing for the area, were digging their pits.
Rep Chandler spotted him through a window and came limping to the door with a cane. He grinned broadly. His leg was no longer splinted. “Thank the good Lord you got home in time, Lassiter. Millie will be awful pleased. . . .”
“Time for what?” Lassiter asked as he handed over the money sacks. Chandler hardly gave them a glance.
“Why, for the weddin’, that’s what. Only time we could get the reverend, as he’s due north in a coupla days.”
“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. . . .