Close Call Read online

  Close Call

  Clinton Spurr

  © Clinton Spurr 1974

  Clinton Spurr has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1974 by A. Wheaton & Co., Exeter.

  This edition published in 2017 by Pioneering Press

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  DANE LASSITER reined up and stared at the notice nailed to the tree, and a glint showed in his blue eyes as he found himself looking at a good likeness of his face that some artist had drawn on the notice. The wording was stark and grim:

  Wanted for Murder — Dane Lassiter — $500 Reward if delivered to any sheriff of Kansas. Satisfactory proofs of identity will be required.

  The notice was signed by the sheriff of Creed County, and Lassiter firmed his lips as he leaned sideways and tore the notice from the tree. He stared at it again, his lean face taut, his pale eyes glinting, and then he folded it carefully and stuck it into a breast pocket. His lips were a thin line in his face as he rode on.

  So they were still looking for him, and all because of a no-account gambler who had figured his hands were faster in cheating than Lassiter’s eyes. He smiled thinly as he recalled the saloon incident, but his teeth were clenched, for the gambler had drawn first and it hadn’t been murder. Someone who had been present in the saloon that night in Pommel, his home town, hadn’t liked him, and that someone had been powerful enough to influence Buck Milton, the sheriff.

  But that shooting had taken place eight months before, and this was the first time Lassiter had ridden back into Creed County, his home range. He glanced around, his face hard. He was twenty-seven, a tall, lean, broad shouldered man with a wild streak in him and a fierce pride. The fact that he was better than average with a gun and had a worse than average temper pointed to conflict in his life, but he had managed to stay out of trouble until eight months ago.

  He was riding across country that he knew intimately, and there was a pang in his heart as he looked around. Since he’d made a run for it with the law on his tail he had found a lot more trouble, and he knew there were more wanted notices of him adorning the law offices for five hundred miles around. But a man had to live, and a man on the run couldn’t pick his friends or his jobs easily. He wouldn’t have returned now if he hadn’t heard in some saloon that trouble had come to his family because of the way he had run out eight months previously.

  He eased his Colt in its tied down holster and tightened his lips. He was taking a chance by coming back, but he wouldn’t let that knowledge keep him away. He figured he owed his family, and he’d pay any debt that came up. It would be too bad if the law got in his way now he was back.

  A rider showed on a distant crest, and Lassiter spotted the movement instantly. In eight months of dodging the law he had learned a lot on survival, and his instincts had developed tremendously. He shaded his eyes, figuring the rider was on BAR C range, and he shook his head as he thought about Luke Clark and his son Yancey. There had always been trouble between the Lassiters and the Clarks. Since hitting the trail, Lassiter had often wished that he’d killed Yancey Clark before riding out. It would have stopped Yancey making a nuisance of himself around the Lassiter place, making sheep’s eyes at Mary.

  He watched the rider disappear again, following the lie of the land, and he dragged his thoughts back to himself as he continued, riding south. His father had found trouble, had let it be known that he wished his youngest son Dane could return to help, and Dane was here now, a few miles from the Cross L ranch house where he had been born.

  The sun was westering, making long shadows on the undulating range. Lassiter had timed his arrival with sundown, and he knew he would have to be away before dawn. He dared not stop long in one spot. He had almost been caught several times, but his luck had held out until now.

  He pushed his bay into a gallop and made the animal go at full stretch. The horse was his best friend — his only friend, and Lassiter had known loneliness since his trouble started. He fought down his emotions as he saw landmarks which had faded from his mind. The past eight months seemed like eight years, and bitterness suffused his lean face as he considered what had happened. He had been framed with a murder that had never been. He had drawn and fired in self defence, but he didn’t think he would ever be able to prove that now.

  When he at last halted on a skyline and found himself staring down on Cross L, he let a bitter sigh escape him, and his lips pulled tight while his eyes narrowed and glinted. He took a deep breath, and for a moment his instincts were stifled by emotion. He had figured never to see this spread again. He had carried away with him a picture of it in his mind, and that memory hadn’t tarnished in the least. But coming back to stare down upon his home filled him with sharp emotion, and he was moved as he glanced around, taking in the familiar details, studying the scene he had known and loved so well.

  It was still too light for him to ride in, and he let his hard gaze sweep to the left of the big, square house and take in the few trees on a nearby hill, where his mother was buried. The Lassiter cemetery, he thought grimly, and there was just the one grave in it so far. All the Lassiters would be buried there, it was planned, and he had known for some time that his body would be the only one absent when his time came.

  He gigged his mount sideways off the skyline and started a detour towards the trees, his thoughts hard, his mind filled with query. What kind of trouble had come to his father? Why hadn’t his brother Frank been able to handle it? The details had been absent in the report which had reached him far away, and days of hard riding had only sharpened the wonder inside him.

  When he reached the foot of the hill, he trailed his reins and left the bay cropping the lush grass in cover. He slid his rifle from its boot and started up the slope on the side farthest from the house, and the silence pressed in about him and he knew fresh emotion as he gained the trees and stepped into their cooling shade. The breeze still blew hot across the range, and he cuffed back his Stetson and wiped the sweat from his broad forehead. He went forward until he could see the cross on his mother’s grave, and then his steps lagged and his thoughts turned harsh. He could remember his mother only as a woman who had been a part of his childhood. She had died when he was four years old, and all that he really knew about her had come from his father’s lips.

  He pushed forward again, then stopped abruptly, as if coming to the end of a rope tied around his lean waist. There was another grave beside the first, with fresh earth piled high and battered down hard, a grave that hadn’t been there more than a few days. A handful of wilting prairie flowers lay on the stark soil of the grave, and the cross fixed at the head showed raw ends that hadn’t weathered yet.

  There was a coldness in Lassiter’s mind as he paced forward quickly to read what was burned into the arms of the cross, and his sight blurred when he was within distance, as if his mind was afraid what he would find. He blinked rapidly and stared at the cross.

  Walt Lassiter, he read. Born 1838. Murdered 1884.

  Murdered! The word leaped at him from the cross, and he gasped and sank to his knees at the foot of the grave, unmindful of the breeze in his face. Murdered! The word burned into his mind as it had been branded on the cross. His father was dead, murdered!

  The sharp click of a gun being cocked struck his keen ears, but such was his shock that it didn’t register, until a harsh voice came fr
om behind.

  “Okay, Mister, drop that rifle and get up slow. Don’t do anything with your hands or I’ll bust your spine with a slug.” There was menace in the tones, but the words themselves were grim enough to freeze Lassiter, and he let go his hold upon the Winchester and pushed himself slowly to his feet, keeping his hands well clear of his waist. “The sheriff figured you’d be showing up around here soon as word got out that your old man was dead,” the voice continued. “It was good thinking on Buck Milton’s part.”

  Lassiter turned his head slowly and stared at the short, stocky man covering him with a big, steady .45 pistol. There was a glinting deputy star on the man’s red shirt, but Lassiter had never seen him before so he was a newcomer to the county.

  “So you’re Dane Lassiter!” There was deep satisfaction in the deputy’s tones. “This must be my lucky day. I can sure use the five hundred bucks they put on your head.”

  “Who are you?” Lassiter demanded. “You’re a stranger around here, huh?”

  “So what? I’ve been a deputy in Creed County for the past six months. I’ve heard a lot about you, Lassiter, but I never figured I’d get the chance to take you. How come you was fool enough to ride in here like a tenderfoot? Didn’t you figure the law would be waiting for you?”

  “What happened to my father?” Lassiter demanded. He was fighting his shock, and trying to keep his mind clear of grief.

  “You can talk to the sheriff. Right now I want you to get rid of that sixgun you got around your middle. Do it real slow. I guess you ought to know that I’m a nervous man, and the slightest little scare will start me shooting.”

  Lassiter unbuckled his gunbelt and let it fall to the ground. He kicked it aside, scarcely able to hear the deputy’s words for the roaring sound that filled his ears. He was reeling in shock. His father was dead, had been murdered.

  “What happened to my father?” he repeated, and saw the deputy grin. The man was about forty, tough looking, with piercing brown eyes, and he knew what he was doing. The muzzle of his big gun was steady, and he didn’t let his attention relax for a moment.

  “Let’s get back to where you left your hoss,” the deputy said. He waggled the gun. “Get moving.”

  “My father,” Lassiter said through his teeth. “Tell me what happened to him.”

  “He got himself shot, like you’re gonna do if you don’t get moving. As sure as my name’s Hank Boswell, I’ll plug you and tote you in face down across your saddle if you don’t do like I tell you.”

  Lassiter moved forward slowly, his mind beginning to work again, but the deputy didn’t give him any chances. He stayed well out of reach, and he was ready to start shooting on the slightest provocation. Lassiter glanced back once at his father’s grave, then went down the hill, and his face was stiff, his lips thin against his teeth. His thoughts had fastened upon one word — murder — and clung to it with a strange intensity.

  When he reached his horse he was surprised to find another beside it, and the deputy chuckled harshly.

  “I’ve been waiting two days for you to show up, Lassiter,” he said. “At first I figured it wouldn’t work, but you got to hand it to Buck Milton. He’s a schemer okay. He’s been waiting to get you, and now his patience has paid off.”

  Lassiter swung into his saddle and turned the bay to face his captor. The deputy came forward, his gun still covering his prisoner, and he gained his saddle easily, swinging his gun to keep Lassiter under its threat.

  “Okay,” he grated. “You know the way to Pommel. Let’s go.”

  “We’re not far from Cross L,” Lassiter said. “Let’s ride in there so I can talk to my brother and sister.”

  “They’ll know you’re back soon enough,” Boswell retorted, his face twisted with ill humour. “I’m not taking any chances with your bunch. They’ve given us some trouble around here in the past six months.”

  “My father?” Lassiter demanded incredulously. “I won’t believe that.”

  “There’s a lot you wouldn’t believe, seeing you’re one of them. But get on to town and you’ll start getting the picture. Now move out before I plug you and carry you in dead. It’s all the same to me.”

  “You’re not taking him anywhere, Boswell,” a harsh voice yelled from nearby cover. “Sit still and drop that gun or you’ll collect a bullet.”

  Lassiter turned his head to peer in the direction the voice came from, and he saw movement in the brush. The deputy had stiffened, and he let his gun fall without hesitation. Lassiter heaved a sigh of relief, and waited for his rescuer to show himself. The voice had sounded familiar, but he waited, his pale eyes narrowed. The next moment a tall, heavy man appeared, carrying a rifle, and Lassiter took a quick breath. It was Charlie Logan, one of the Cross L riders. Logan was around forty, and had ridden for Cross L since his youth. He came forward steadily, the rifle covering the deputy who was sneering now, although his features showed a certain amount of concern.

  “I might have guessed it was you, Logan,” he said sharply. “I been hoping you’d do something foolish so we could nail you. I guess this is it.”

  “Charlie, what’s been happening around here?” Lassiter demanded, dismounting and trailing his reins. He walked across to the deputy and took his gunbelt from the man’s saddlehorn.

  “I’m glad to see you back, Dane,” the older man said gravely. “You came too late though. You can’t do anything about what’s going on around here.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that. What happened to my father?”

  “He was shot down in cold blood on the trail between here and town four days ago. There was a note pinned to his shirt. It said the killing was for Bart Beutel!”

  “The gambler I shot!” Surprise stabbed through Lassiter, and he threw a glance at the watching deputy. “Any idea who did the killing?”

  “No idea at all. You figure we didn’t try to find out?” There was a grim note in Logan’s hard voice. “We been expecting you to show up, Dane. We guessed you’d be hearing what happened to your Pa. I saw the law watching this place two days ago, and I’ve been keeping my eyes on them ever since. Lucky for you I did. This galoot would like as not shoot you in the back and tote you in across your saddle.”

  “You’ll be running with him after this,” Boswell rasped. “I had Lassiter under arrest and you’re busting him free. It’s the same as busting him out of the jail. You’ll draw five years for this, Logan.”

  “And you better watch out,” the big cowpuncher retorted in menacing tones. “I might just plug you and plant you where you fall.” He glanced at Lassiter. “We’ve been getting trouble from the law,” he added.

  “On my account, I reckon,” Lassiter said tightly. “They sure want to hang me for killing that gambler!”

  “It ain’t against the law to kill in self defence,” Logan retorted. “We’ve done all we can these past eight months to prove you didn’t murder Beutel, Dane. But it ain’t no good. There’s someone made a statement that you drew first that night.”

  “I didn’t get the chance to state my side of it,” Lassiter retorted. “I had to run for it. But there were some of my friends present, Charlie. Didn’t you find anyone who would back me up?”

  “Nobody saw the moment before the gun blasted,” Logan said. “I went around to talk to everyone you named, Dane, and no one saw you shoot in self defence.”

  “But someone saw me draw first!” Lassiter thinned his lips, and his pale eyes narrowed as he stared at the motionless deputy.

  “Don’t look at me,” Boswell snarled. “I wasn’t even in the county when you murdered that gambler. All I know is what I’ve heard. You’re a wild’un, so they told me, and your helling around finally ended with you killing a man. Now you’ll get your neck stretched for that, and if you get away from me now there’ll be other times.”

  “Not for you, Boswell,” Logan retorted grimly. “I’ve a mind to kill you here and now. Nobody would know!”

  “What’s gotten into you, Charlie?” Lassiter
rapped. “I never heard you talk cold blooded before.”

  “You ain’t been around here these past eight months, Dane. It’s been hell! We been getting trouble from all sides.”

  “Because of me?” Lassiter demanded softly. He suddenly pictured his father’s face, and the knowledge that the old man was dead hit him hard.

  “I reckon you’ve been used as the excuse,” Logan retorted. “I don’t know what’s back of all this, Dane, but someone is using the killing to get at Cross L.”

  “What about Frank and Mary?”

  “They’re taking your father’s death hard. Frank is blaming you for it, son. He said to kick you off the spread if you showed up at all.”

  Lassiter’s lips pulled tight, and he clenched his teeth.

  “And Mary?” he demanded.

  “I can’t say about her. She went into town after the funeral and we ain’t seen her since.”

  “Were there any tracks near my father’s body?” Lassiter asked tightly.

  “I’m the best tracker in the county, and I went over the ground twice. Someone blotted out his trail after the shooting. I couldn’t turn up anything.” Logan shook his head sadly. “It’s come to a hell of a situation, Dane.”

  “What can I do?” Lassiter demanded. “I came back to help out. I didn’t know Pa was dead. I got word that there was trouble here. But what can I do if there’s nothing to work on?”

  “There ain’t nothing you can do, and that’s the sad fact,” Logan retorted. “If anything could have been done it would have before now, don’t you worry. But this is a deep game, Dane. It started when you were blamed for murder. It was done to get you out of the way. That much is clear to me. Then with you gone it opened up the situation, and trouble came to Cross L. You weren’t there to face it and it grew, until your father died. I don’t figure Walt was killed because you knocked off that gambler. It was just an excuse that was given to cover up the real reason.”