Lassiter 2, p.1
Lassiter #2, page 1
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
The Series
Piccadilly Publishing
Chapter One
ON MAY SECOND Lassiter walked into the Antler Saloon in Bridge, Montana. It was evening, warm. Noise in the rough room bounced off the bare wood walls. Outside, a distant train whistle from the east was lonely in the dark, empty street.
The saloon was nervous and jumpy, the noise was brittle, on the edge of panic. The town expected callers—had been expecting them for too long. They didn’t know Lassiter; he could be one of the callers.
The woman in the red dress at the bar, without a glass, was standing alone. Even if he hadn’t been hunting this woman Lassiter would have noticed her. There were about fifty men. Some were at the bar, at the poker tables and at the smaller tables. Some were drinking, some were laughing and some were watching the door. There were other women and none of them were alone. Only the woman in red stood by herself. The only empty spaces at the bar were on either side of her.
Lassiter went to the bar and took the place at her right. He ordered his drink. In the backbar mirror, he saw her big, gray eyes on him. He nodded at the bartender. “Give the lady a drink.”
The man had a bottle in his hand as he turned away, and started down the bar. Lassiter, holding his glass, suddenly splashed the liquor against the back of the bartender’s head. The man came around, caught the bottle by its neck, swung it loosely. Lassiter shoved his empty glass across the scuffed counter. “Fill it. Give the lady a drink.”
The man was short and powerful through the shoulders. He wanted to slam the bottle across Lassiter’s face. Then he met Lassiter’s eyes and changed his mind. He filled the glasses and moved away.
The men at the bar saw and heard what was going on. They watched the bartender; they watched Lassiter. That section of the long room was suddenly quiet except for the tinny piano against the back wall.
The woman watch Lassiter. He looked her over—the short, low-cut dress, the checkered stockings. Her voice, low, husky.
“You alone, mister?”
He smiled at her. “Alone.”
“You’re taking a long chance.”
He put down his drink. The liquor wasn’t good. In the mirror he saw that the men around him were tense, pretending no interest.
“Want to find a table, sit down?” he asked.
“You’re a damned fool. Not in here.”
“Where would you suggest?”
He read refusal in her face. Then her chin tilted up. Her eyes slid around the room. She lifted a full, bare shoulder. “Meet me down by the livery. Half an hour,” she said. She emptied her glass slowly, defiant, sashayed casually toward the door and out into the night. Through the open door the train whistled. It was closer.
The livery corral was darker than the street, emptier than the street, and quiet. The runway doors were closed. There was no light in the office. The only movement was among the horses at the hitch rail in front of the saloon. The only lights were from the saloon, from the station, and from the signal lamps in the freight yard. The train snaked in, making the only noise.
Lassiter watched it from the doorway of the feed store beside the saloon, watched it take on water, watched the switchman’s bobbing lantern, watched the cars grind out. In all of this time no one came from the saloon. No one apparently would follow him.
He stepped out across the wooden sidewalk. His boot heels made too much clatter against the old boards. He walked down into the deep dust of the roadway and turned toward the corner of the livery. He stopped there and looked behind him; still he saw no movement. Then he turned in at the side street beside the building.
The woman stood there, her back against the warped, unpainted planks. He saw only the white blur of her face and shoulders. Wind, hot, sudden, swept up the street, grabbed at her skirt. It flapped up, above legs that he could not see.
She said, “Stranger.”
“Stranger.” He touched her arm, firm, soft, warm. “Where can we talk?”
There was a tautness in her voice yet it was empty of hope. “Why talk?”
“Where?”
Without words she turned, moved down the ruts of the street into the rising, brush grown, open land.
The cabin was small, a single room built of logs, half the chinking fallen out. But it was clean and neat. He saw it from the doorway where he stopped until she lit the lamp. The lamp’s beaded glass shade was an odd note of elegance in these parts.
He stepped over the sill and pushed the door shut. She did not speak but undressed immediately. When she turned toward him he noticed she was gold-toned in the lamplight, well-formed, broad and strong through the hips.
The bed was poor—a thin mattress stuffed with hay. He did not care. For weeks he had ridden the high, cold hills, alone. The woman, too, knew the commanding hunger of the body. They took their relief in surging demand. They drained themselves of need. But when they lay apart, naked, close in what should have been companionship, her spirit had not lifted. There was no hope in her voice, only a guarded curiosity. “Why did you pick me?”
He lied. “You were alone. A woman like you shouldn’t be alone. Not in a saloon. Why did you call me a fool?”
“Because I’m poison. They’re afraid to touch me while Johno is still alive. They’re afraid even to serve me drinks.” Bitterness shook in the words, burning, deep. “Even when he’s in jail they’re afraid. Even when he’s going to be hanged they don’t dare.”
“If he’s that bad off what are they afraid of?”
“He’s one of Butch Cassidy’s men. They don’t know whether or not Butch will ride in and rescue him. They don’t know who you are. Did you see the way they watched you?”
“I saw.” He rolled out of the bed, dressed, rang a twenty-dollar gold piece on the wash stand. “Get some clothes on to ride in. I’ll be back for you.”
She nodded slowly. She did not understand, but she was used to obeying orders. Any orders.
He went back into the night. He walked the half mile out of town, picked up the horses, rode in and tied them in the brush behind the cabin.
Thirty minutes later he slapped back the doors of the saloon and went in. The room was still filled with noise. But all of it, even the piano, stopped when he entered. He walked with exaggerated care, a drunken, barely balanced course toward the bar. Sawdust on the floor did not kill the sound of his steps. He faltered, grabbed the counter for support, and ordered the drink, his voice thick.
The bartender was sullen, slow in pouring. Lassiter drank quickly, turned over the glass and tried to shove it across the bar. “Nother,” he said.
The man glared. “You’ve had enough. Go back to Hope. Sleep it off.”
Hope … a funny name for a woman who knew no hope. Lassiter’s hand was fast. He reached across, caught the dirty apron, yanked the fat stomach against the back edge of the counter. He hit hard. The bartender fell down.
Lassiter stumbled into the man beside him. The man threw a punch at Lassiter’s head. Lassiter ducked. Then he hit the man in the stomach.
The room was sudden bedlam. The tension broke. They surged forward and crowded Lassiter to the corner. There were too many of them. Fists drove at him; he couldn’t duck them all.
A big man with a star on his shirt stood up from a poker table, pushed ponderously through the mauling crowd. Lassiter was on the floor. He had been kicked three times in the ribs, once in the face.
The sheriff thrust the crowd back, stooped and hauled Lassiter to his feet. “You’re drunk. Clear out of here,” he said.
Lassiter wiped his mashed lips with the back of his left hand; blood dripped onto the rough skin. Lassiter stared at the blood then buried his right fist in the sheriff’s stomach.
The blow drove the sheriff back a step but did not knock him down. He drew his gun and brought the heavy barrel down along the side of Lassiter’s skull. Lassiter collapsed, unconscious.
Chapter Two
THE CELL WAS square, cramped with two tiers of bunks and a slop pail. It was lighted by a wall lamp in the empty outside office. It stank with the odors of drunks, unwashed men off the trails and with the acrid overlap of lye soap.
The light hurt Lassiter’s eyes. He rolled away from it, groaning, and lay muttering to himself.
“Shut up,” he heard someone call.
Lassiter opened his eyes; it hurt to move the lids. He turned his head to a big man bracing an elbow on the bunk opposite. His hair was yellow, thickly curled; his eyes were round, blue.
Lassiter touched the ridge raised by the sheriff’s gun. That hurt too. There was not much about him that did not hurt. He cursed in a running monotone.
“Shut up, I say. How can a man sleep?” the other yelled.
Lassiter shut up. He swung his feet to the floor and sat, looking around the cell, looking at the iron bars that walled it off from the office. There wasn’t any privacy in this jail. He got to his feet, feeling his knees shake, feeling the wave of weakness. Avoiding touching the other man’s bunk, he worked strength back into his muscles. He stopped before the bars, looked through to the office and the desk there. He saw his belt and gun lying on the desk, saw no one in the outer room. Still exercising his back and his legs, he turned, went to the bunk where the yellow-haired man lay watching. He gave the man a painful, twisted smile. “You like this lousy place?” he asked.
Johno Wade gaped at him, the surprise in his blue eyes genuine. “That’s a pretty stupid question.”
Lassiter lifted his shoulders. “Why stay?”
The eyes widened. “You must be a nut of some kind.”
Lassiter’s smile came again. “Want to leave with me?”
“Quit talking crazy. I’m slated to hang next week.”
“Go pile up the mattresses in the corner by the door.”
Wade did not move. Lassiter picked up the mattress from his bunk, slung it toward the far corner. “Put the others against it. Do it before somebody comes,” he said to Wade.
Wade moved then. He didn’t know what, but something about this madman was convincing. He stacked the straw ticks together, then went to the window where Lassiter was working.
Lassiter had his arm through the window bars, and was feeling below the sill. He found the end of the fuse that he had wedged into a crack between the stones of the wall, loosened it and pulled it inside. He struck a match and held its flame against the fuse. “Get back. Brace yourself,” he said.
The fuse caught, sputtered. Johno Wade stared at it, said, “Where the hell did that come from?” Then without waiting for an answer ran to the mattresses and burrowed under them.
Lassiter hoped that no one would come into the office just now. He let the burning fuse slide out of the window and drop, pulled himself up and pressed his cheek against the bars so he could look down. He held his breath. If the fuse went out when it hit the alley dust …
It did not go out. The little sparks ate along it, following the twisting path toward the cache of dynamite he had buried at the base of the wall.
Lassiter watched until he was very sure that his plan would not be interrupted. Then he dived across the cell, under the mattress pile, holding the ticks down on top of them. He did not catch Johno’s muttered question. It was lost in the sharp explosion that filled the alley.
The stone wall came apart, sagged, tumbled down. Part of the wooden roof caved in. Lassiter threw the ticks aside, jumped to his feet. Flames were already licking through the tangle of pitch filled rafters. He hauled Wade up, shoved him ahead toward the fire. Wade pulled back and Lassiter put a hand on his shoulders, and followed the stumbling figure through the flames.
He picked the man up from where he sprawled in the alley, and shook him to attention. “There are three horses in the bush behind Hope’s cabin. I’ll meet you there in five minutes. Get the girl in a saddle.”
He shook the man once more, started him off with a shove, ran around the corner and in through the front door of the jail, caught up his gun belt from the desk, and slapped it around his lean hips.
No one had appeared so far. He got a second belt and gun from a wall peg, jumped back to the street. Behind him fire was falling from the roof above the office. He stopped at the door for a fast look along the street.
The saloon crowd had not rushed out to investigate the explosion. They figured it was Cassidy’s bunch, and none of them wanted to be in gun range. They stayed behind cover, waiting.
Lassiter ran. As he passed in front of the saloon, he bent over. Someone snapped a shot as he crossed the path of light, but the shot went high. Then he was in darkness, around the corner. He made a dash for the end of the side street.
Wade was already in the saddle, Hope on a horse beside him. Lassiter caught the third horse and flung up, driving it out before he was seated, turning to see the others wheel and fall in behind.
He kept the fast pace for a mile, for insurance, but there was no pursuit. No one in Bridge wanted to charge into these hills. Cassidy’s fifty men might be out there, waiting to cut down anyone riding after Wade.
Lassiter dipped down a draw, slowed, followed it off the trail five miles from town. He was sure by then that it was safe to stop.
He swung down. He made no offer to help the girl, but left that to Wade. He did not want any trouble with Johno.
Lassiter made a small fire, got the coffee pot from his bedroll, filled it at the stream and put it to boil. The water was not good; it had a brackish odor and the smell of the cattle that waded in it further up its course. But boiled with enough coffee grounds it could be drunk.
Wade impatiently stood watching. He waited only until Lassiter sat back on his heels, and rolled a cigarette. Then Wade burst out. “All right. Just who the hell are you?”
Lassiter took his time. Looking up, his smile thin, he answered. “It matter to you?”
“Damn right. You were all set up to blow that wall before you got tossed in the cell. I want to know why.”
“Wanted you out. Quickest way to get you.”
Suspicion made Wade step back. “What for?”
“So you can take me to Butch Cassidy.”
“Take you …?” Wade’s mouth dropped. Then he laughed, high, raucous. “You picked on the wrong boy, mister. I can’t take anybody to Cassidy.”
Lassiter put it down to the normal caution of an outlaw. He said softly, “Sure you can. You’re his man.”
He did not like the secret smile Wade gave him. There was some sour meaning behind it. The man did not answer. The woman watched Lassiter, and looked at Wade. She said in sudden disgust. “Because Johno was stupid. He got jealous of Herb Garnett and shot him in the Antler Saloon.”
Wade swung on her. “You stood there and gave him the glad eye …”
She ignored him, talked on to Lassiter. “Stranger, Butch has a quiet deal with all the local law. The Wild Bunch don’t make trouble in the towns, so they’re allowed to ride in and out as they please. Johno broke the rule, shot a town man. Butch could have broken him out the next day, but he said the hell with him, let him hang.”
Lassiter flipped his cigarette into the fire, kept the surprise out of his voice. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“You didn’t ask.”
The note in her voice brought up Wade’s suspicion. “How come you two know each other?”
Her chin came up. “I met him in the saloon tonight.”
The big man’s hand went to the gun on his hip, the gun Lassiter had thrown to him when they rode out. Lassiter got himself set. The man was quartered to him, his attention on the girl. There was time to move. He stayed quiet, waiting. Wade’s voice was a vicious rumble. “You let him pick you up?”
She lied easily, out of long practice. “I wanted to get you out. He said he could.”
Wade’s head swung slowly. Lassiter watched Wade’s wild but puzzled eyes. He waited out the moment. Wade’s hand eased, fell away from the gun. Lassiter stood up, but did not move his hands. Then he went to the saddle pack, found the tin cup, brought it back and filled it. Deliberately he offered it to Wade. The man took it, passed it to the girl. Lassiter filled it again for the big man, filled it a third time for himself. He drank, letting time run on. The hot liquid seared the cuts inside his bruised mouth. He sounded thoughtful, sympathetic. “You got trouble. I don’t think Butch is going to like you running around loose. You’d better take me up there.”
Wade yowled. “You’re crazy. He’d kill me straight off.”
Lassiter’s head moved from side to side. “Not if you tell him how to pick up two tons of gold. Two tons. Half a million dollars. You’d be right popular.”
“In a bank?” he asked.
“On a train.”
“What train? When?”
Lassiter’s lips thinned. “My ace. I know. Cassidy doesn’t.”
Johno Wade did not think fast. “If you know, why do you want to tell Cassidy?”
“I need men. Could you carry two tons of gold out of these mountains alone? I can stop the train, but I need men to move the gold.”
He glanced from Wade to the girl. Her breath had drawn in sharply. Her eyes held more life than since he had met her.
“Sound nice? Would Cassidy like it?”
Wade spoke. “Like hell. It smells. It’s sucker bait. You just want to get into the Hole.”
