The Man from Del Rio Read online

  THE MAN FROM DEL RIO

  LASSITER 2

  By Peter McCurtin writing as Jack Slade

  First Published by Tower Publications

  Copyright © 1969, 2015 by Peter McCurtin

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: February 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges ~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.

  When Lassiter found the man with two arrows in his back, he picked his pockets and found a gilt-edge invitation to muscle in on some easy money. He left the corpse to bury itself and high-tailed it into a situation that had him fighting for his life from the very beginning. But that was part of Lassiter’s business—no matter how many other men died.

  Now Lassiter’s trying to find a hoard of buried silver worth a cool $100,000. The only trouble is, ten other tough hombres have all got the same idea.

  Chapter One

  The white man from Del Rio lay dead from Indian arrows atop the low hill, half in the clump of buckeye shrub. Lassiter stared down at him, and then up at the Reverend Matthew Herbert who stood alongside.

  “What did you say, Preach?” he snarled, his voice a low growl.

  “I said you killed him, Mister Lassiter,” the minister answered, standing tall in his black frock coat, a Bible in his hand. “You killed him as surely as if you’d shot those two arrows into him yourself.”

  Lassiter’s eyes bored holes into the Reverend Herbert’s sternly righteous face. Three days ago the reverend had promised Lassiter fifty dollars to guide him through this strip of Kiowa territory. Seeing as how he had planned going that way anyway, Lassiter had figured it would be an easy fifty. But that had been three days ago. Now he was fed up to his eyeballs with the Reverend Matthew Herbert. He hadn’t heard so much sweet-Jesus-talk and lecturing on the evils of sin since growing up in Shiloh. And now the reverend was trying to pin this dumb bastard’s death on Lassiter.

  “You figurin’ on going to heaven, Preach?”

  “I am,” the minister said proudly.

  “You’ll be gettin’ there a lot sooner unless you shut up,” Lassiter said coldly, his eyes angry, impatient. “If you’d kept your fat mouth closed, instead of yelling out to warn this man, we wouldn’t be sittin’ here waitin’ to be attacked by Kiowas.”

  “You didn’t open your mouth to warn him,” Reverend Herbert atoned. “It’s a Christian’s duty to help his fellow man.”

  “Lot a good your shoutin’ did. A Christian’s duty is to stay alive, so’s he can spread the word. I’ve got to go out there now and get the one I didn’t kill.”

  “Why?” Reverend Herbert asked. “Let him alone and he’ll go back to his tribe.”

  Lassiter snorted, grimly. “Two of his blood brothers have been killed,” he said. “If he doesn’t go back with somebody’s scalp he can forget being a Kiowa. They wouldn’t even have him as a squaw. That’s why I’ve got to get him before he gets us.”

  “Should I go with you?” the reverend asked.

  “Christ, no!” Lassiter exploded. “I’m going out there to kill him, not save him. You stay here till I get back.”

  “And if you don’t get back?”

  “Pick out a nice prayer for me,” Lassiter barked, starting off. “Something short, because you won’t have much time to say it in.”

  The big man moved down the path without looking back. The Kiowa had bolted into the thickness of the woods, mostly shade bush, black oak and hawthorn, dense cover with a good soundless base under it. Lassiter moved deeper into the woods, moving as silently as an Indian, despite his size. He moved in quick, darting motions, slipping from tree to tree. He stopped as a chipmunk raced across his path. A rabbit followed the chipmunk and Lassiter crept forward slowly. The sneaking Indian was in there, close at hand. The big man hunched himself down and moved forward again. He knew that the Kiowa, like all the scalping savages, used surprise like a white man used a gun, as a very real weapon. And he also knew that no matter how ready you were for it, you were never ready enough. The young tree branch, pulled way back, was an object lesson.

  As the Kiowa let it go, it snapped back like a whiplash just as Lassiter reached the tree. Instinctive, automatic reaction made Lassiter put up his hands and rear back as the branch slammed into his face. It was the split-second moment of surprise the Indian wanted and he was onto the other man in a diving tackle, the knife in his hand slashing down.

  Lassiter went backward with the force of the attack and felt the knife rip the sleeve of his jacket as he twisted his body to one side. He got a knee up under the Indian’s belly and pushed hard and the Kiowa fell off to the right.

  Lassiter was halfway to his feet when the Indian slashed out again at him and he had to pull away. Once more the furious Kiowa was atop him, pressing him back into the ground. Lassiter got his hand on the Indian’s knife arm and held it steady.

  He shoved his fingers into the Indian’s eyes and felt the man’s grip loosen as he went back in pain. Using his strength and weight, Lassiter rolled the Indian over and brought his arm down hard against the Kiowa’s throat.

  The red man gasped and his mouth flew open and Lassiter twisted hard against the knife arm.

  The man’s hand opened and the knife fell out. Lassiter yanked him to his feet and smashed him across the face with a blow that would have half-killed most men. It didn’t do the Indian any good but he was young, strong, and desperate. He lowered his head and bulled the bigger man into the side of a thick oak tree. Lassiter grabbed him by the hair and felt his hands slip on the buffalo grease.

  He yanked the Indian’s head back and, getting room to swing, clipped him hard on the point of his jaw. The Indian staggered and Lassiter sank his arm deep into the Kiowa’s belly. As the Indian doubled over, Lassiter brought his knee up and felt it smash into the Kiowa’s jaw. A tremendous, looping right, coming in downward like a lightning bolt, landed alongside the Kiowa’s jaw and Lassiter felt the bone shatter.

  The Indian pitched forward, lay on the ground twitching like a snake with its head cut off. Lassiter brought the Bowie knife out of its rawhide sheath at his waist and stopped the twitching in one, sweeping slash.

  He grimaced and raised one arm and sniffed at himself. One of the things he hated about fighting Indians at close range was winding up smelling of raw fish and buffalo grease. He wiped off the knife on the Indian’s loincloth, put it back into its sheath and walked casually back to where Reverend Herbert waited. He didn’t say anything and the reverend, seeing the expression of his eyes, didn’t need to ask.

  “Now let’s see if we can find out who this damn fool was,” Lassiter said, turning over the man the Kiowas had killed. He went through the man’s pockets with deft, practiced hands. The man’s clothes were good, clean and laundered. He was no range bum. In the inside pocket of his jacket, Lassiter found a neatly folded letter. He opened it and read it to himself.

  Mr. Abraham Kinder Wheelford, Texas

  Dear Mr. Kinder,

  This will introduce Amos Seward from Del Rio. He is the kind of man you asked me to find for you. He is honest, reliable and well spoken. He has agreed to the arrangements, namely $500 for his services as a beginning, the rest to come if and when. The best of luck.

  Your friend,
>
  Robert Anderson

  Lassiter almost let a little smile cross his face. Almost. He folded the letter, thoughtfully and soberly, and put it in his pocket. Five hundred dollars was good money for damn near anything and he could sure use it. If he had to pretend to be Amos Seward, he would. Besides, the letter had the smell of more to come. Wheelford was to the north, along the Madison River, about a half-day’s ride from where he’d agreed to take the reverend. The river generally marked the end of Kiowa territory, though the Indians made an occasional raid over to the other side. He looked up to see the reverend watching him.

  “Well, Mister Lassiter,” the minister said. “Did you find out the poor man’s name?”

  “Amos Seward from Del Rio,” Lassiter grunted.

  “Did that letter say where he was headed?”

  “That was a prison record,” Lassiter lied without blinking an eye. “It goes against my Christian nature to bury a man with his past sins upon him.”

  “Very commendable, Mister Lassiter,” Reverend Herbert said. “You see, there is a great deal of good even in you.”

  Lassiter burped and swung up onto his horse, a nice, steady Appaloosa he’d bought in Jefferson City from a tired trader.

  “Let’s get the hell outa here,” he coughed.

  “Aren’t you going to bury the man?” the reverend asked with shock in his eyes.

  “I’ll let Mother Nature take care of that,” Lassiter barked. “Mount up, Reverend, less you want a Kiowa arrow up your ass.”

  “Well, let me at least say a few words over the poor soul,” the minister protested. Lassiter swung the Appaloosa around.

  “You do that,” he snorted. “I’ll see you around, maybe.” He rode off at a fast trot. Glancing back, he saw the reverend half way into the saddle, starting after him. The minister caught up to him shortly and pulled up alongside.

  “You’re a man of strange contrasts, Lassiter,” Reverend Herbert said. “The devil and the Lord are struggling for your soul.”

  “Yeah,” Lassiter growled. “I’m up for grabs. And your side’s been losing for a long time.”

  Lassiter glanced at the minister and saw that he was about to start on a quotation from the Good Book.

  “Shut up, Reverend,” he warned. “I want to meditate.” Lassiter meditated all the way to the Madison River where the reverend gave him the second half of the fifty.

  “Much obliged, Mister Lassiter,” Reverend Herbert said. “Perhaps we’ll meet again. I’ll be riding circuit in this territory. I hope our three days together has been of some good to you.”

  “It’s made a new man out of me,” Lassiter grunted. He wheeled the horse around and started along the banks of the Madison River, heading north. He rode into Wheelford sitting up real straight in the saddle, the way Amos Seward from Del Rio had sat when he rode through Kiowa country.

  Chapter Two

  Wheelford was a surprise to the big man. Not that it was so different from other towns, it was just neater, with a well-ordered feel to it. He saw fewer drunks lying around the dusty porches and the hotel had a fresh coat of paint on it. Lassiter had seen a small Army post a mile or so outside of town. Maybe that was responsible. Or maybe it was that Wheelford lay just a few miles south of the Cimarron cutoff and received a share of visitors from Kansas and Santa Fe. When he rode into town the late afternoon sun was stretching shadows across the twin rows of frame buildings.

  The Appaloosa, though not a big horse, had plenty of stamina and power and made good time in an easy, loose, ground-eating gait. Remembering to sit straight, Lassiter was about to slow down at the saloon for directions when he saw the name on the big plate-glass window of the store diagonally across the street. He read it again: “Abraham Kinder—Attorney—Surveyor.” He wheeled the Appaloosa to the hitching post, tossed the reins over the rail loosely, and started into the office.

  He cursed and realized how hard it is to change the way you walked. His usual walk was a loose-armed saunter, each step rising on the balls of his feet, the walk an experienced lawman could instantly spot as that of a man whose guns came out fast and often.

  His big frame was loose-jointed, with a free-swinging saunter that let his powerful leg muscles instantly whirl or freeze hard to anchor himself for fast, accurate shooting. He put his head back and walked straight-backed, the way he imagined Amos Seward would have done.

  The office, large, with two black leather chairs in front of an old wooden desk, held four people. Lassiter let his eyes sweep them all in one glance. He always did it that way, taking in the big things, first, the elements that struck him at once. The details he’d take in later.

  The man behind the old desk was white-haired and big in shirtsleeves. Piercing blue eyes held steady. Two cowhands, ordinary, sat in front of the window. Beside the man at the desk a girl stood in Levis and a loose red shirt, big breasts pressing hard against the shirt despite its looseness, hair the color of wheat in morning sun, shimmering gold.

  “Mr. Kinder?” Lassiter rumbled.

  “Yes,” the shirt-sleeved man said, rising to his feet. He had big, heavy hands and despite his years, he was no doubt a rugged man. Lassiter drew the letter from inside his jacket and handed it to him.

  As Kinder opened it and began to read, Lassiter let his eyes move to the girl again, and caught her looking at his hard-muscled frame, the width of his shoulders and the narrow line of his hips and then back to the hard lines of his face. He smiled at her, a pleasant, polite smile. Her eyes held a cool, mocking interest and they told him a lot in an instant. He’d seen eyes like those before, mostly on women who liked to lead men around by the nose. He turned his eyes from her but not before noting again how her breasts pressed against the shirt.

  Lassiter shifted his gaze to the two cowhands against the windowsill. One, the taller of the two, had an arrogant jaw and hard eyes. Lassiter knew the type. Probably ranch foreman somewhere, maybe even at Kinder’s, a man harder on his men than he needed to be and not nearly as hard as he thought he was. Dismissing them, he turned his gaze back to Kinder, who was watching him with a piercing, penetrating inspection.

  “Glad you got here safely, Seward,” the white-haired man said, extending his hand. Lassiter gripped it iron hard.

  “Glad to be here, sir,” he said, gagging on the last word.

  “This is my daughter, Ellen,” Kinder explained, gesturing to the girl. Lassiter touched his hat, a nice, respectful note, he told himself. Just what Amos Seward would have done. She nodded, her eyes the same, piercing blue as her father’s but laced with cool amusement.

  “I’m glad Anderson got you to work on this, Amos,” Kinder said, his eyes still studying the big man before him. “What were you doing when Bob found you?”

  “I was between jobs.”

  “That was good for both of us,” Kinder commented. “Ever do any ranching?”

  “Some,” Lassiter said, working hard to keep the normal, hard flatness out of his voice.

  “I’ve a spread outside of town,” Kinder remarked. “Maybe when this is over you’d like a try at working for me.”

  Ordinarily, Lassiter would have told the older man to stop flapping his lip and get to the point but, he reminded himself, Amos Seward was ‘well-spoken.’

  “I’ll sure keep that in mind,” he made himself answer.

  “Have you known Anderson long?” Kinder asked, idly.

  “No,” Lassiter croaked, having trouble keeping down his annoyance. Kinder’s warm, friendly manner cloaked a deft way of fishing, he decided. The man’s next remark strengthened his observation.

  “Did he tell you I was Territory Judge here before I retired?” Lassiter shook his head and wondered if the statement, so idly tossed out, was so idly meant.

  “Well, you’re here, Amos,” Kinder finished. “That’s the most important thing. But I’m going to put off going over things in detail with you till the morning. I’ve some papers to finish now. You must be pretty well bushed, anyway.”

&nbsp
; “I am,” Lassiter lied. “But there is one thing, Mr. Kinder. I’d like to clear the arrangements with you, just to make sure we both understand them.”

  “I thought Bob cleared everything with you,” Kinder said, mild surprise in his voice. He looked down at the letter. “It says right here that you agreed … ”

  “I know,” Lassiter cut him off. “I’d just like to hear it from you. I mean, right now all I have is Anderson’s word that he was speaking for you.”

  Kinder looked thoughtful for a moment and then smiled.

  “That’s reasonable enough,” he said. “All right, it’s five hundred for your services, half in advance, and ten percent of whatever monies finally come to me. Of course, I hope all of it will come to me.”

  Lassiter’s mind raced. He’d learned a little more and he didn’t want to press about something he was obviously supposed to know about. But there was more money involved than the five hundred. The letter had implied as much but now Kinder had confirmed it. So far, so good.

  “Get a room at the hotel, Amos,” Kinder said. “Tell them I’ll pay for it.”

  “Much obliged,” Lassiter said. He turned, pausing to meet Ellen Kinder’s eyes. Their faintly amused expression hadn’t changed. He hoped she couldn’t read his eyes. He wanted this job to move on without sideline problems. He walked out, pleased with his performance. He took the reins and walked his horse to the hotel stable.

  “I’ll unsaddle him,” the stable boy said, taking the Appaloosa. Lassiter tossed the boy a coin. It was nearly dark, now, and he checked into the hotel, secured a room and then went across the street to the saloon.

  A few cowhands lined the bar, two all-day poker games were still going on, but the night crowd hadn’t flocked in yet. At the outer perimeter of tables, five girls lounged under too much make-up, the ones too young trying to look older, the ones too old trying to look younger. Their eyes were frank with unspoken invitations. He had fifty in his pocket—with perhaps a little more, the promise of more at hand—and he would have enjoyed taking the little one with the round ass.