Lassiter 4, p.1
Lassiter #4, 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
About the Author
The Series
Piccadilly Publishing
Copyright
Chapter One
CAUTION HAD BECOME his riding mate. His horse made no sound on the thick cushion of needles and there was little undergrowth to brush against. He rode with his rifle across his legs, left nothing to chance. This was empty country. He might be the only man in it. It made no difference. He rode alert.
To stay alive.
Wells Fargo, Sidney Blood, wanted him. Bad. His last score against them had hurt and Blood was sweating under the silent displeasure of Valentine, head of the company, under the pressure of James Hume’s silent, standing order. Bring in Lassiter. Hume, chief of Wells Fargo’s special police, had quit saying it aloud. His face said it. It curdled Sidney Blood.
It was a time to stay out of sight for a while.
And there was no better place. These mountains were remote, rough as crumpled paper, knife-edged ridges rearing up from steep-cut, deep and narrow canyons. Pole pine was dense here, tall and straight, stretching for sunlight that was brief between crest and crest. It was not silent. Every canyon bottom echoed up a thunder of white water boiling down. Trails were scarce and travelers few.
Few, he thought, knew of the cabin. He had found it by accident. One of a complex of log buildings that had served the crew of the copper mine that had been abandoned a lot of years before. It stood back from the stream, within the trees, half a mile down canyon from the overgrown dump, the tunnel mouth and the decaying headframe. He guessed that the mine manager had lived here, removed as far as possible from the clatter of the donkey engine that had hauled the ore car up the slanting tunnel to the sorting shed.
The West was pocked with such abandoned mines. Buildings rotting, tunnels filled with water, roads obliterated by spring floods. Remnants of golden dreams that had never come to reality.
For him it was ideal. A single-room cabin with a lean-to shed kitchen. A rusting range and granite sink there. A gravity flow of water ran through a trough continually, spilled into the sink. The woodhouse still held stove-lengths long under shelter, tinder dry. In the main room a potbellied stove, for use against the brutal winter when snow piled to the eaves. A table with benches, two bunks in a tier. He had cleared out the rocks, twigs, litter brought in and left by pack rats, thrown his blanket roll out on the lower bunk, and was at home.
Below the cabin the stream was slowed, widened into swamp ponds by a series of beaver dams, a hundred acres of quiet, shallow water framed by aspen, filled with trout. There was meat in the hills. It was a place to be content. He was grateful for it. And restless. A month was long for him to be in one place.
The sun was gone, the day fading. He had spent it hunting across the steep hills, had got a yearling doe, the best meat in the world. He rode down the canyon, the doe tied across the horse’s rump. He stopped below the breast of the dump, butchered her, skinned her out, cleaned the stomach, slung the sixty-pound carcass over his shoulder and walked an eighth of a mile back into the old tunnel.
The timbering was rotting but still held, the rails were little more than streaks of rust. As a mine it did not interest him, but it too suited him, a place to hang his meat, the air cool, dry, and the place he chose was too far underground for flies to penetrate. The doe would keep well there.
He hung the carcass neck down, left the mine, slid down to where he had left the horse. Cut the liver out of the entrails, buried the rest with the hide and head in the rubble of the dump, washed the liver and his hands of blood and rode on down, along the rock shelf that bordered the tumbling stream.
The twilight was long, filtering down from the rim a thousand feet over his head. The pine was sweet. Aspen leaves danced, shimmered silver in the small downdraft. A trout rose in the first beaver pond, cleared the water, splashed back. A king beaver swam, surveying his domain, only his eyes and the top of his head above the surface. A silent vee of wake followed him. For this brief hour Lassiter knew peace.
He came around the clump of trees that screened the cabin from the mine, stopped, not yet in the clearing. Just in case.
Familiar tension came through him. There was a horse in the pole corral. His own animal shifted. He spoke to it, low, quieted it, sat motionless, studying the new animal, reading the brand on its black hip. A brand he did not know. He looked to the cabin. A trace of smoke lazed from the rusted, tilting stack, lost itself in the shadow of pines. He had company.
It could be all right. In the high country any traveler was at liberty to shelter in a line camp, a mountain cabin, a mine building. Etiquette required only that the visitor left it stocked with whatever food he carried and could spare, leave it in as good condition as he found it. The rider could be a hunter. Or someone passing through. Or a man like himself, hiding out for a time.
Or it could be trouble. One of the Express company agents tracking him here to kill him.
He backed deeper into the trees, stopped again, took time to look fully for other signs of life. Nothing moved outside the cabin. A squirrel cursed him from a branch over his head. Above the rush of the stream, echoing and reechoing between the canyon walls, the squirrel was all he could hear.
He eased around the corral, got down, tethered his horse to the rear fence. There was no window on this side of the cabin. He went forward, toward the corner, stopped suddenly. In the deepening shadow a saddle lay on the ground. Side saddle. Woman’s saddle.
Long, slow breath filled him. He had not had a woman in too long. Had not seen one. And on this mountain was not a place to expect a woman. It could be a plant, a trick of Sidney Blood’s. Blood had used women before, trying to trap him.
He shoved the deer liver inside his shirt, carried his rifle in one hand, drew his left short gun. Ghosted down the wall, turned the corner to the door. He lifted the latch without sound, eased the leather hinges open, watched through the widening crack. He waited there, for reaction. There was none. He shoved the door wide.
The room was dim. Against the black background of the stove the white cloth tossed on the table showed. He stepped inside, went closer. There was a dress, a woman’s undergarments, riding boots on the floor. He looked around the room and did not see her. She might have gone to the stream to bathe. His lips lifted. It was ice water, running from the melting snow blanket at the canyon top. A woman who would bathe in that was to be admired.
Or she might have heated water on the range, be in the kitchen washing in more comfort. He catfooted that way. Faint heat still came from the iron firebox and a soiled kettle sat in the sink under the spilling trough. He had not left it. His utensils were cleaned immediately after he used them. All his gear was always ready to move within a moment.
He turned back to the main room sharply. He had been careless. Had noticed that the burlap curtain was drawn over the lower bunk but not registered to it. He had not closed the bunk since he had been here.
He stood the rifle against the wall, kept his hand gun ready and went to the bunk. He listened for breathing but the roar of the river was overpowering. He reached out, gentle, whipped the curtain aside.
There was still light enough to see her. She lay on her back, a blonde girl with a handsomely chiseled face. She had been too warm, in her sleep had pushed the blanket down below her knees. She slept naked.
If this was a Wells Fargo agent she ought to be fired. Or she might have an accomplice staked out in the trees.
That would have to wait. He stood admiring her, the old urge that rode him up, strong. He needed women. Needed them most under the smell of danger. This one looked better than most. The breasts were tall pears tipped with pink, not brown, upstanding nipples as if she dreamed of a man. The skin was white with a translucent depth, tight over smooth, good shoulders, good arms, an ample, taut belly.
He waited there, looking, listening until deep shadow filled the room, blurred the figure. Then he went out the lean-to door, circled the cabin, found no one.
He went inside again, dropped the deer liver on the drainboard, hung his gun belt on its peg, undressed. He threw the blanket off her legs, lay down at her side. His right hand held his gun, up braced on that elbow. Her body warmth reached him, her natural perfume. He bent above her, savoring it.
His hand drawing down from her shoulder waked her. Her eyes sprang wide in alarm. He waited for a warning shout or a scream, the one to tell him she was a decoy, the second to make her a mystery.
Neither came. She shifted away, raised to her elbow, looked close to see his face in the gloom, looked down the bare, lean, tight-knit body. Then she dropped back. She laughed, kept laughing. Full, deep-toned, free.
He mounted her. He had never had a woman while she laughed. The laugh cut off on a high, sharp note.
Then she was with him, silent with hunger. Strong, testing, then matching his surge, fighting like a caught fish under him, with him, not against him. It was long and good. She outstayed him, drew out all he had, then held him gripped and arched to her own fulfillment.
; They lay quiet as they were, heavy with emptiness. When they had rested he kissed her. His hand still held the gun.
It was full dark when he rolled away, rose and lit the lamp, looked back at her. She lay like a lazy cat, prolonging her release, surveying him. She saw the gun, did not mention it. With a cat’s slow grace she came up, walked to the table and began to dress.
She was good to watch. Unhurried, graceful in every move. He judged her clothes, not cheap, not gaudy. But not the clothes for riding the high mountains. Except for the boots. They told him only that she had come unprepared. Not where from, not why. Not a reason for being here in the night, in a town dress, forty miles from a town.
Neither of them spoke. He dressed, went to the kitchen, built up the fire, took a lantern out to the dry well and raised the bucket where he had hung the kettle of cooked beans. They were chilled against spoiling down there and out of the reach of the raccoons. You had to be ingenious to keep them from stealing food.
He came back to the kitchen and found her slicing the liver. They worked side by side, getting a dinner, then sat at the table eating. She seemed as ravenous as he. When he finished he rolled a cigarette, dragged deeply on it, studied her through the thin smoke.
She sagged back on the bench and smiled. “A full day this has been. And I didn’t expect it to wind up quite like this. I’m glad I found your cabin.”
He liked her voice. He liked all he knew about her. Which was not enough. She could still be a danger to him.
“You didn’t know it was here. My horse picked up a stone. I pried it out, but I knew he’d go lame if I didn’t let him rest. Then I came around the bend and saw the building. Until I got inside I thought it was deserted.”
“And when you found it wasn’t?”
She lifted her full shoulders. “I didn’t have much choice. I had to hope that whoever was living here would take me in for the night.” Her laugh bubbled up again, full with good humor. “I hardly counted on the introduction I got.”
His lips twisted but did not relax. “What introduction? You haven’t given me your name yet.”
“I haven’t asked yours either. I wouldn’t believe it if you told me.”
“Why? What do you know about me,”
“That you’re hiding out. You’re not here to work the mine, I walked up and looked. No one has worked in that tunnel for years.”
“And are you hiding?”
She had withdrawn into herself, her face closing, quiet, without expression.
“I don’t ask questions. I don’t answer them. We met; we were good for each other. In the morning I’ll leave. That’s enough for me. It will have to be for you.”
He did not argue. He could choke answers out of her of course, but there seemed a better way. At least she had no one working with her. He would have made his play by now. He took the dishes to the kitchen, dried them as she washed them. Then he took her back to the bunk.
They searched each other with more leisure now, and when both were exhausted they slept in each other’s arms.
He woke up first. He did not sleep after daylight as a rule. Never, unless he was certain of security. Naked, he took a towel and the homemade fish pole and went to the stream, heard her coming behind him as he went through the door. He walked into the water, anchored his feet in the rocky bottom, felt the hard pull of the current around his middle, crouched down, ducking his head, scrubbing his body clean.
She stepped in after him, balancing like a nymph, not wincing at the cold. She was quick but thorough, then she ran back to the cabin, stealing the towel.
He finished, thrashed ashore, his body cherry red from the icy bath. Picked up the pole and went to the top beaver dam. His bait fell into the water. The king beaver was there, saw the splash, turned and swam toward the bait. Lassiter knew what it would do, come up beside the line, slap the water with its broad tail to scare the fish away. The king did not like people at his pond.
He was not in time. The trout took the worm before he got there, a thirteen-inch fish, alive, fighting with every inch, then flopping helpless on the bank. Lassiter caught three more, carried them back to the cabin for a knife to clean them. The woman was dressed, at the stove, her fair skin flushed with the heat of the new fire. He smelled a pan of sourdough biscuits browning in the oven, coffee boiling.
They ate in silence, as if there was nothing now between them, like strangers thrown together at the table of a stage stop. She washed the dishes, straightened the bunk, and turned toward the door,
“Thank you for the night. I’ll go now.”
Lassiter said nothing, picked up a coil of rope, walked to her. She lifted her brows, not understanding. He said,
“I want to know who you are, what you’re doing here.”
“Sorry.”
His hand snapped out, caught her wrist, twisted her to bend the arm up behind her back.
“Don’t fight and it won’t hurt. I’m tying you up. To be sure you’re here when I get back.”
She swung her head to see him, her lips pulled back, showing strong teeth in a snarl, her face ugly now.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh yes. I’d dare a lot. I can’t take chances. Maybe you just happened up here. Maybe you were sent. I have to know. Are you going to tell me?”
“Go to hell.”
“A shame to hear a woman swear.”
He picked her up, carried her to the bunk, tossed her on her back, put his knee in her stomach. She fought, screamed, cursed him. There was no one to hear. He tied her with professional ease. Her eyes hated him. He kissed her nose. She would bite if he tried her lips. He turned to go. Her voice followed him.
“What if you don’t come back? I’ll starve to death.”
He filled a whiskey bottle with water, put it within her reach. “I’ll be back.”
“But if you don’t?”
“Then we’ll both be dead.”
Chapter Two
LASSITER FOLLOWED HER tracks back down the canyon. It wasn’t hard. No one else had been through here in months. The overgrown road wound along the bottom of the vee shaped cleft, crossed and recrossed the river, ran now along one bank, now the other.
Once these crossings had been bridged by thick log trestles to carry the weight of the wagons loaded with broken ore on their seventy-mile way to the mill. The spring torrents had torn them out, scattered the timbers down the stream. He counted seven fords in the twenty miles to the junction of the mine road and a broader track coming down a second canyon, cutting off to the west.
The bigger road had been built by a lumbering company, but they too had given up years ago. It was deep rutted from the double usage of lumber and mine wagons, but nature, as always, was obliterating the scars made by man. Upstart brush hid the wheel marks, the old scuffs of horseshoes on exposed rocks.
Lassiter got down at the juncture, searched the ground both ways, looking to see from which direction the girl had reached this point. The lumber road was hard packed, but fifty feet to the west he found the soft spot of a seep spring. Here were two hoof prints, filled with water. The shod prints of her horse.
He turned west. The hills through which the road wound decreased in height. The sheer drop of canyon walls leveled to rolling ridges, falling in ordered steps from the high peaks behind.
At sunset he struck the main north-south road coming down through Cheyenne on the north, over the mountains, toward Calhoun at the south end of the wide valley. He was nearly forty miles from the cabin.
Again he got down. This was a traveled road. He could not identify her horse’s marks in the tangle of others. He went back up the lumber road, studying the sign. She had gone up it on the south side. It probably meant that she had come from the south, turned right into the bisecting track.
He put his horse toward Calhoun, some twelve miles away. The sun died behind the sharp peaks of the military ridge to the west. Night came on the soft whisper of the down draft. The pine smell gave way to the sweet scent of deep grass. The valley widened. He overtook two freight wagons heading south. A burro train and four riders met him, sent a noncommittal hail through the dark.
The road bent around a spur of ridge like the paw of a sleeping lion. Calhoun’s lights winked ahead, dimmed by a rising moon that was a week short of full.
