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—catch 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. . . .