Lassiter flexed the fingers of both hands. “Mister, I have not shot all those I have killed in the back, if that is what you believe.”
“Back or front, it makes no difference.”
“For a cowhand, you think awful highly of yourself.” Lassiter lowered his hands next to the Merwin and Hulberts. “Anything else to say before I put windows in your skull?”
“Just that I am sorry,” Lin said.
“For what?”
“For killing you.”
“I am not dead yet.”
“You will be,” Lin said matter-of-factly.
Their eyes locked.
The moment had come.
Chapter 26
Lassiter was no longer amused. “Enough of this!” he snarled, and his right hand stabbed for a revolver. He had not quite touched it when his elbow exploded.
Crying out, he gaped at the smoke curling from the muzzle of Lin’s Colt.
Lin twirled the Colt back into its holster and let his hand drop to his side. “You have one more.”
“This can’t be!” Lassiter blurted in disbelief.
“Are you any good with your left?” Lin asked.
“You will find out,” Lassiter declared, and went for the other revolver.
In a blur, Lin drew and shot him in the left elbow, and then twirled the Colt into his holster.
A bawl of rage and pain keened from Lassiter. He glared at his ruined elbows—at the dripping blood and the bits of flesh. “You have shot my arms to ribbons!”
“I am just starting.” Lin calmly drew and, without deliberately aiming, shot him in the right knee.
Howling in agony, Lassiter fell. He tried to clutch his shattered kneecap, but his arms would not work as they should. “Damn you!” he fumed. “Damn you to hell!”
“That was for Pat Dixon,” Lin said. “This is for Susan.” Lin shot him in the other knee.
Screeching and swearing, Lassiter thrashed wildly, his teeth clenched against the torment.
Lin watched while replacing the spent cartridges. By the time he was done, Lassiter lay still, cursing without stop. “How does it feel?”
“Do you think this is funny, you son of a bitch?”
“Not at all,” Lin assured him. “I did not think what you did to Sue Dixon was funny, either.” He placed his thumb on the Colt’s hammer. “It is good you are as tough as you are.”
“Belittle me all you want,” Lassiter hissed.
“I meant it as a compliment.”
“Why good, then?”
“Because it will take you a long while to die,” Lin said, and shot him in the right thigh.
More thrashing and swearing ended with Lassiter lying spent and caked with sweat and blood. “Enough,” he gasped. “Kill me and be done with it.”
“No.”
“Is this your idea of justice?”
“It is my idea of vengeance.”
Lassiter tried to sit up but failed. “Listen. I have close to four hundred dollars in my saddlebags.”
“Good for you.”
“It is yours if you will mount up and ride off,” Lassiter offered. “What do you say?”
“You are a wonderment.”
“Then you will do it?”
“Was Sue Dixon alive when you rode off? Her mother does not count because you only shot her.”
“You miserable, rotten, stinking—”
A flick of Lin’s thumb, a squeeze of his finger, and a .45-caliber slug cored the killer’s other thigh.
Lassiter flopped about like a stricken fish out of water, subsiding only when he was too exhausted to move. Blood seeped from the six holes in his body. “End it, damn you,” he rasped.
“You do not like it as much when the boot is on the other foot, do you?”
“What kind of damn-fool question is that?” Lassiter practically screamed. “I have never been in so much pain.”
“That is nice to hear. I was afraid it would not get worse after the first couple of times.”
“How much more do you intend to do?”
“I have a spare box of ammunition in my saddlebags,” Lin said. “It is nearly full.”
“Oh, God.”
Over the course of the next half hour, Lin shot Lassiter in one ankle, and then the other; in one shoulder, and then the other; in one wrist, and then the other; in one shin, and then the other. After each shot, Lassiter bucked and blistered the air with oaths, but each time he bucked a bit less and blistered a bit less, so that after Lin shot him in the second shin, Lassiter did not buck or blister at all, but lay a quivering wreck.
“Please,” Lassiter begged.
“No.”
“You are inhuman.”
“You have no room to talk.”
“I hate you. I have never hated anyone as much as I hate you.”
“That will persuade me.” Lin finished reloading and twirled the Colt into his holster.
Lassiter’s tear-stained face rose a few inches. “Answer me true. How much more? When will you end it?”
“You have ears; you have fingers; you have toes.”
“I am serious, damn it.”
Lin smiled. “So am I.”
Lassiter swallowed. “I was wrong about you. You are no cowhand. You can’t be. How come I never heard of you? People like us—the word gets around.”
“We are nothing alike,” Lin said.
Lassiter looked down at himself. “Now it is you who are wrong. We are exactly alike, you and me.”
“I was raised on a ranch. My whole life was cows and work. You are the fourth man I have shot.”
“God,” Lassiter said, and laughed. “Done in by an amateur.”
“I do not like to shoot people,” Lin said. “I do not like to kill.” His voice hardened. “I am a peace-loving man driven to do that which he does not want to do by those who think God gave them the right to ride roughshod over everyone else. You, Stone, those other gun sharks, Seth Montfort—none of you care who you hurt. You prod and push and take human life like people are flies, and expect to get away with it. But this time you have pushed and prodded too hard, and taken your last human life.”
“A nice speech,” Lassiter said. “But there is only one of you. Before this is done, Seth Montfort will piss on your grave.”
“I have changed my mind,” Lin said, and shot him between the eyes.
For a while he stared down at the body; then he sighed and slid another cartridge from the loops on his belt. “One down and a small army to go.”
Chancy was dozing when the front door creaked and boots clomped.
Seth Montfort and Stone and three others cut from the same coarse cloth came down the center aisle. To say they were surprised to find him there was an understatement.
“What is this?” Montfort asked, plucking at the blanket. “You have opened a hotel as well as a store?”
Abe Tucker was leaning on the other side of the counter. “Don’t get me started.”
Montfort regarded the bandage and smirked at Chancy. “Got yourself shot, did you? Well, it will make things easier.” He snapped his fingers at Stone. “Be so kind as to finish him off.”
At that, Lute Bass stepped out of the shadows, his big hands on his Remingtons. “No, you don’t. I need him alive.”
Stone was about to draw, but he stopped and said, “Lute?”
“It has been a spell, Isaac,” Lute Bass said. “I did not know you were in this neck of the woods.”
Seth Montfort glanced from one to the other. “You know this man, Mr. Stone?”
“We are in the same trade,” Stone answered. “We have worked together a few times.” He introduced them.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Bass,” Montfort said, shaking. “And I will be even more pleased if I can add you to my payroll.”
“I would let you if I was not working for someone else,” Lute Bass said, and nodded at Chancy. “Me and a couple of others have been hired to make wolf bait of this one and his older brother.”
>
“You don’t say.”
Stone looked down at Chancy and laughed. “Damn, boy. You have stepped in it up to your knees. If not us, it will be them. If not them, it will be us.”
“Go away and let me rest,” Chancy said.
“Yes, go away,” Abe Tucker said irritably. “It is bad enough my store has been turned into a hospital.”
Seth Montfort made a clucking sound. “Is that any way to talk to a paying customer? I am on my way to visit Etta June and need to buy a present. Do you still have that china bowl she admired some months back?”
“I do.”
Montfort turned to Lute Bass. “I will not dispute your claim to the boy and his brother. You are doing me a service, and I am grateful. After you are through with them, look me up.”
“I might just do that,” Lute Bass said.
Abe Tucker came around the counter. “Do you want to see that bowl or not? I cannot stand around all day listening to people jaw.”
“You have become a grump in your old age,” Seth Montfort said.
“No, I have always been one,” Abe retorted. “And people who waste my time only make me grumpier.” He moved toward a shelf lined with dishes and bowls, and Montfort followed.
“Someone should take that old coot out and treat him to a few lashes from the bullwhip,” Stone remarked. “He will learn to be sociable real quick.”
“Since when do you care about sociable?” Lute Bass asked, and laughed.
“Now that I think about it, not ever.”
The two walked toward the front. Stone’s current companions tagged along, leaving Chancy alone on the counter. He glared at the whole bunch, his trigger finger twitching. Abe Tucker did not have a monopoly on grumpiness. Chancy was fit to spit nails. He wanted out of there, shoulder wound or no shoulder wound.
Unknown to Lute Bass, Chancy’s strength was returning. He was not his normal self yet, but neither was he puny and helpless. Given half a chance, he would slip away from Mason, borrow his brother’s revolver and return to settle accounts. But he had to keep his head and not make his move until he was sure he could get away.
Unfortunately, Chancy did not have a lot of time. Lin was due to show up the next day. Unless Chancy warned him, his brother would ride right into the trap Bass had set up. Ride in, but not ride out.
Chancy blamed himself. If he had kept his temper when the banker, Pettigrew, came to call, they would not be on the run. If only Pettigrew had not been so eager to throw them off their land. If only Pettigrew had not been so insulting. The final slur, for Chancy, had come when Pettigrew commented that their father had not planned wisely in the event of his death, leaving his poor wife to drink herself into an early grave.
Outraged, Chancy had shoved Pettigrew and told him to shut up. Pettigrew had told him to keep his hands to himself. When Chancy had pushed him again, Pettigrew had reached under his jacket. Chancy had assumed the banker was about to draw a pocket pistol or a derringer, and he had done what any man with common sense would have: He had whipped out his Colt and shot Pettigrew in the shoulder.
Lin liked to say that it was smart of him to shoot the banker in the shoulder and not the head or the heart, but the truth was, Chancy had shot him in the shoulder by mistake. Chancy had aimed at Pettigrew’s chest, intending to shoot the man dead, but Pettigrew had turned to run.
It was then that the banker’s protectors had sprung to his aid and gone for their hardware, forcing Lin to shoot all three. Lin had not wanted to kill them, and now he could not forgive himself. As far as Chancy was concerned, they had gotten their due.
An argument between Abe Tucker and Seth Montfort drew Chancy out of himself. They were haggling over the price of the china bowl. Apparently Montfort, the richest man in all the Big Horns, was also the most miserly; he was trying to talk Tucker down five dollars.
It occurred to Chancy that if anyone knew what had happened to his brother, it would be Montfort. Accordingly, when the dickering ended and the pair returned to the counter, Chancy set right in. “My brother came to see you a while ago, didn’t he?”
“That he did,” Montfort confirmed.
“Why isn’t he back at the EJ yet?” Chancy asked, amending it with, “At least, he wasn’t when I left to come here.”
“You have seen the last of your brother,” Seth Montfort declared.
Chancy rose onto his elbows. “What do you mean? He went to your place to deliver a message. What did you do to him?”
“When he left he was still alive.”
“Then why did you say that?” Chancy demanded.
“If he is not at the EJ by now, obviously something must have happened to him.” Montfort motioned at Tucker. “Put the bowl for Etta June on my account. And wrap it, if you please.”
“Want me to shine your boots too?”
“You try my good nature, old man.”
Chancy could not shake a terrible feeling about Lin. “How do I know you didn’t have my brother shot for trespassing?”
“Give me more credit than that, would you, boy?” Montfort said in contempt. “Would I want word to get back to Etta June and have her run to the law? No, I would not. I made it a point to see that he left my place in one piece.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“And I don’t give a good damn what you believe.” Montfort snatched the china bowl from Tucker. “On second thought, forget the wrap. I will not stand here and be insulted by this good-for-nothing. I am leaving.” Wheeling, he stalked out.
Abe Tucker snickered. “You sure riled him, son.”
Newfound vigor was coursing through Chancy, courtesy of his anger. “I have just begun to rile.”
Chapter 27
With the big sugar gone, the bunkhouse was noisier than usual.
Seth Montfort was strict about the rules he set down. His punchers were to do as he demanded, or they could pack their war bags and find work elsewhere.
There were a lot of rules. “No drinking” was first and foremost, anywhere on the Bar M, at any time. “No gambling” was next on the list. “No women” was third, with an exception for married punchers, whose wives could come visit from time to time so long as they did not stay the night. That none of his hands were married did not stop Montfort from making the rule.
Other rules had to do with how they should dress, and how they should act, and how they should talk. The “no swearing” rule was loosely enforced because even Montfort realized his hands could not help it. The bronc buster was one example; he regularly swore up a storm when he was thrown. But Montfort never punished him. To the contrary, Montfort complimented him on his “colorful mix of every oath known to man.”
Of all the rules, the one the punchers disliked the most had to do with what they considered to be none of their boss’s business: cleanliness. Montfort required that each hand take a bath once a month—whether the hand wanted to take a bath or not. To the punchers this was outrageous. They did not understand why Montfort made a fuss over a little dirt and stink. Some regarded baths as harmful to their health. It was common knowledge that too much bathing made a person sickly. As one puncher put it, “If I turn puny, it will be his fault.”
On this particular night, with Montfort gone, several of the punchers broke out flasks. A card game was started, and two men went into a corner to throw dice.
Most of the hands, though, refused to break the rules. They had given their word, and breaking it was the one thing they never, ever did. So they sat and talked. Or wrote letters—those who could write. Or read books—those who could read.
Those who broke the rules and those who did not all had one thing in common. They wanted nothing to do with the three new men who had been given bunks at the far end of the bunkhouse. The new men were not punchers. They were gun sharks Montfort had recently hired. They were left behind, as he told them, to “keep an eye on things.” As Montfort explained it, he would not put it past the Dixons to show up and cause trouble. Indeed, Montfort was hoping they w
ould, thereby giving him an excuse to dispose of them and take possession of their land.
The hired assassins sat by themselves, playing poker. The rules were supposed to apply to them, but they were not the least bit loyal to the brand. They were loyal to the dollar. So long as they were paid, they would do what they were hired to do.
The hubbub of voices rose to the roof. Despite the presence of the pistoleros, the punchers joked and laughed and told tall tales, as was their wont. A puncher named Oliver was in the middle of a story about his visit to a house of ill repute and his encounter with a gilded lily who he claimed was as big as a boxcar, when the front door opened and in walked a tall, broad-shouldered man with hair the color of straw.
All conversation ceased. Men froze in the act of turning a page or sipping from a flask or even opening their mouths to speak.
The broad-shouldered man stood blocking the only way out and did not say anything. He wore an ordinary Colt, his big hand next to the holster.
Finally Wiley, who was near the door, cleared his throat and gruffly asked, “What in hell are you doing back here, mister?”
“I am looking for your boss,” Lin Bryce said.
“He has gone to Mason and then to see that filly he is interested in,” Wiley returned. “I do not know when he will be back.”
“That is too bad,” Lin said. “I was hoping to end it tonight.” He scanned the rows of bunks, and his gaze settled on the three men by themselves at the far end. Taking a few steps, he called out, “You there. Unless I am mistaken, you are not cowhands.”
The three put down their cards. They rose and came down the aisle, two in the front, the last trailing. Bar M punchers moved out of their way to clear a path.
“No, we are not,” said one of the foremost assassins. He was short and stocky and favored a crossdraw.
Lin said, “You do not have the look of men who do an honest day’s work for an honest dollar.”
The three swapped glances. When they were twenty feet from Lin, they stopped, and the man at the rear stepped up to stand shoulder to shoulder with the other two.
“Mister,” said the short killer, “I cannot believe how stupid you are. Didn’t pistol-whipping you teach you anything?”
Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail Page 19
