Lassiter 11, p.1
Lassiter 11, page 1
Contents
About the Author
The Lassiter Series
Copyright
Rate this Book
Piccadilly Publishing
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
JACK SLADE was a house name for various authors.
But for the purpose of this book, the original writer was Peter McCurtin. His westerns in particular are distinguished by unusual plots with neatly resolved conclusions, well-drawn secondary characters, regular bursts of action and tight, smooth writing. if you haven't already checked him out, you have quite a treat in store.
Want to know more? Check out his webpage here.
The Lassiter Series
by Jack Slade
Lassiter
Bandido!
The Man from Yuma
The Man from Cheyenne
A Hell of a Way to Die
High Lonesome
The Man From Del Rio
The Man From Lordsburg
Gunfight at Ringo Junction
Funeral Bend
The Man From Tombstone
Five Graves for Lassiter
THE MAN FROM TOMBSTONE
LASSITER 11
By Jack Slade
First Published by Leisure Books
© 1969, 2014, 2025 by Peter McCurtin
Published by Piccadilly Publishing 2025
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.
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This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Editor: Chris Haynes
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.
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Chapter One
LASSITER RODE DOWN to Tombstone in the Arizona Territory to see a prizefight—The Battle of the Century, they called it—between the Chocolate Kid and Yankee Bob Nolan. The fight was set for the Fourth of July, seven days ahead, and Lassiter was standing at the bar of the O.K. Saloon with the other serious drinkers when the biggest black man in Creation walked in like he owned the world and defied other people to say he didn’t.
Five people were with the big black. A young woman who could have passed for white, four men who were white. Two of the men were big but nothing compared to the swaggering black. He was well over six feet, heavy-shouldered and slim-waisted and dressed like a New Orleans dandy gone mad: a ruffle-fronted yellow shirt with broad black stripes, a bright red necktie nailed down with a diamond stickpin bigger than a pigeon egg. He wore a light gray suit with pink silk lapels and cloth-topped city shoes. A gray derby was stuck on the back of his bullet head and rings glittered on most of the fingers of both hands.
Lassiter thought the big black was something to see once in a lifetime. More than once would be too hard on the eyes.
It was eight o’clock at night, and the O.K. Saloon was well filled with local drinkers and the strangers who had been drifting into Tombstone for the best part of a month. The prizefight—the promoters were saying it was at least as important as Judgment Day—was bringing them into town from the four corners of the Territory and well beyond. The drinking was going good and so were the games, but when the big black knocked the door open with his shoulder—everything stopped.
Cards went unplayed and whiskey glasses stopped in mid-air. One man burned his fingers with a match. Another man banged down his glass and said, “I’ll be …”
The head bartender had to do something. He picked up a bar rag and scrubbed at a beer stain on the wood.
Lassiter had his back to the bar, a whiskey glass in his hand.
“And good evening to you,” the big black said in a loud voice that rumbled up from deep in his chest.
“Don’t tell me you don’t serve niggers, Mr. Barkeep, because here is one nigger you just got to serve. The name is Mr. Magnus Kirton, folks, and otherwise world famous as the Chocolate Kid. After I beat Yankee Nolan I’ll be more famous. Then watch me go after John L.”
Lassiter thought the Black Coffee Kid would be a better name for the big loudmouth. The Kid wasn’t chocolate at all. He was black as black can be and shining with sweat in the sizzling white glare of the gas chandeliers. The way he spoke was good-natured and sneering at the same time. His smile was wide, full of strong teeth, about as friendly as a wolf with one leg in a trap.
The Chocolate Kid stood in the middle of the saloon, light on his feet, hands moving at his sides, sure of himself. “I just come all the way from Mexico, Mr. Barkeep, me and my friends, and we’d be mighty obliged if you put some bottles on a table. Good champagne wine for me and the lady, whiskey for the white gentlemen. You think you can manage to do that?”
The head bartender put the towel away. Business was business and the prizefight was the most excitement Tombstone had seen since the Earps massacred the Clantons and the McLaurys, but it still hurt him to say: “Welcome to Tombstone, Kid. Champagne for you and your lady, whiskey for the gents.”
The Kid and his party sat down at a table and the drinking and gaming started again—not as lively as before. The head bartender let one of the other bartenders look after the Kid and his party. The big black smiled at that.
Lassiter poured another drink and stayed where he was. The woman with the Kid was dark Cajun or Mexican, maybe a light Negro. The Kid was the last to sit down and he did it the way he did everything else, with a lot of show. The four white men with the Kid looked like city gents, no different from other prizefight hangers-on Lassiter had seen in New Orleans and Kansas City.
The man with the red face, the loud suit and the fat cigar would be the Kid’s manager. The young one with yellow hair and a face trying to be tough would be some kind of bodyguard. About the others Lassiter didn’t know. Maybe ex-newspaper johnnies, scribblers hired to bribe editors to print fancy stories about the Kid.
The Kid poured for himself before he poured for the woman. She was pretty enough, Lassiter decided—but kind of dead looking about the eyes. Making a big show of tasting the wine, the Kid drained the glass. “Yah!” he said, twisting his face.
The head bartender looked over at him.
“Goddamn, if that don’t taste bad,” the Kid said. “You sure that’s the best you got? If it is, then Chihuahua City got poor old Tombstone beat all to hell.”
The head bartender mixed a sneer with a joke. “We’re just Tombstone folks, Kid. Don’t have the benefit of your fancy raising.”
All the Kid did was grin wide with his big teeth. He even laughed a bit. “That’s right,” he said. “Not unless you were raised dirt poor, a family of ten in the nigger-hatingest part of Alabama. You don’t want me here, none of you, but here I am.”
“No offense,” the head bartender said. “You’re here for the fight. We all are looking forward to the Fourth.”
The Kid reached for the half empty whiskey bottle on the table. He laughed when the manager tried to take it away from him. The manager said something Lassiter couldn’t hear, but the Kid wasn’t listening. He drank whiskey, then held the uncorked bottle in his hand.
This time he talked to the whole saloon. “That’s the truth, folks. I bet you-all are looking ahead to the Fourth, just praying to Jesus to see the Yankee cut me to ribbons. We’ll see who cuts who. The thing is—I’m here because they sent for me. You want to know why? Easy—because I’m the best prizefighter in the business, and they know it. Mr. Brock Delaney knows it, and he sent for me. Now ain’t that something for an Alabama nigger to say. It’s true. They let me fight in New Orleans where they ain’t so down on niggers as other places. You know what happened? I knocked out Billy McBrien in the fourth. Big Billy—I did that. They wouldn’t let me fight after that, so I went to Havana and cut Maxey Willis down to size. Then I traveled on to Chihuahua City to do a right sweet job on Silent Sammy Ford.”
The Kid shook off the manager’s arm and finished the bottle. “So now it’s me and the Yankee. Wasn’t nobody bigger than the Yankee for me to fight. Except John L. And you wait. John L.’ll have to match me one of these days. First, I’ll thump the Yankee. Naturally, I won’t do it too quick, the way I could. You folks have come a ways to see a fight, and that’s what you’ll get. Maybe I’ll let him go ten rounds before I make him fall down.”
A buzz of anger ran through the crowd. Yankee Nolan, the old dock-walloper off the Galveston waterfront, was a name they knew and liked. He wasn’t a Yankee, being born and bred in Texas, but there was another popular prizefighter named Dixie Daniels around when Nolan started boxing, so the promoters called him Yankee to whip up North-South interest. Lassiter tried to think how old Yankee Nolan might be. He had seen him fight Curly Gotch in El Paso in ’85, and he wasn’t so young then. Maybe the Y
When the Kid stopped laughing, he said: “Don’t worry, folks, I won’t be too hard on that old man. Wouldn’t be right. I’ll just keep him busy, even make him look good before I tuck him in for the night. There’s big money on this one, folks, and I aim to walk off with most of it. Someday you’ll be able to tell your kids how you saw the best prizefighter ever lived. Remember, folks, you sent for me.”
Lassiter lifted his glass to hide a grin. This big loudmouth was putting on so much dog he was a whole pack of hounds by himself. Nobody could say it wasn’t interesting to watch.
The Kid was talking again, saying much the same thing. Two men walked in and went to the bar. One was small and dark with a foxy face and a gun slung low on a plain black belt. The man with him was long and awkward looking, a hat jammed down so hard his ears stuck out. The small man snapped his fingers and called for whiskey. He poured and slid the bottle to the other man.
“You all sent for me,” the Kid was bragging.
“I didn’t send for you, nigger,” the small man said, turning away from the bar. His foxy face was creased in a tight mean smile. “I didn’t send for you, but I’ve been listening outside. You-alling this way and that about how good you are. I say you’re just another nigger.”
Lassiter had an idea. It could wait a bit.
Moving like a big cat, the Kid stood up. “Suppose you take that gun off, the two of you. Then we’ll see who’s what.”
The small man’s movements were quick but careful. He smiled to himself, sort of dropping his eyes as he did. “I’m a white man and a human being,” he said. “I don’t fight with niggers.”
The Kid was smiling. “One hand, the right one, my good hand tied behind my back. Agin the two of you. Maybe you got friends would like to join in. All of you white folks agin one poor Alabama nigger with one hand.”
“Kid, listen,” the manager said.
The manager said something to the bodyguard, the tough-looking city gent with the yellow hair and the shoulder-holstered gun. Lassiter could see that the bodyguard’s heart wasn’t in it, but he did get up.
“You want something, sonny?” the little man asked, his face twisted with that down-looking grin.
“You’re the one starting trouble,” the bodyguard began.
Lassiter could see that wasn’t the way to handle the little man. There was a quick easy movement and the little man was holding a cocked gun. A gulping noise came from the bodyguard’s throat. “Bang!” the little man said.
Nobody laughed except the Chocolate Kid.
“Now you git, sonny,” the little man said. “Bodyguard, my backside. Out, I said.”
The bodyguard, so-called, grabbed his city hat and made for the door. “Bang! Bang! Bang!” the little man yelled after him.
He put his gun away and looked at the Kid. “Now, why are you still here, nigger? You and your high yaller whore and these white pimps that suck up to you?”
“Without the gun you’re nothing,” the Kid sneered, moving forward a bit.
Lassiter’s drink was in his left hand, and the idea he had looked better all the time.
An old man with white stubble on his face got up from a table.
“Sit down, Mr. Macandrew,” the small man said.
The old man had a shake in his voice, in his hands, too. “Why don’t you drop it, Lem,” he said. “This ain’t no way to act. The Kid’s right. We did send for him, in a way. Mr. Delaney did anyhow. This prizefight means a lot to the town. You live around here, Lem. You know the town’s been next to dead since the mines give out and the cattle business fell through. The prizefight’s supposed to bring in new money, get the town noticed again. That’s why I say—drop it.”
The little man’s face got tight with another smile. “So you say, Mr. Macandrew,” he rasped. “Maybe the town is dead. Maybe it’s better dead than letting this nigger empty his guts on it. Some things count more than money. You all know me, Lem Sutro. Know I’m hurting bad as any of you …”
“You going to hurt worse than that,” the Kid said.
Sutro was relaxed. “Now’s your chance, nigger. This was Alabama I’d drop you like a stone instead of talking. You start something or crawl out of here on your black belly. One thing you surely won’t do is use your black fists on any white man in this town.”
The Kid kept on smiling. Lassiter never saw a man, black or white, who smiled so much—and looked so mean.
Sutro and the other man were away from the bar, in front of Lassiter. The Kid’s fists were swinging by his side. The manager and the two other men were looking for holes to crawl into.
“Not sporting, Mr. Sutro,” Lassiter said quietly. “Don’t you turn around unless you want some real sport. Sorry to spoil your game, but I can’t let you spoil mine. Come a long ways for this fight. Can’t let you gun the Kid this way. You understand?”
Sutro took it calm enough. The jug-eared feller wouldn’t do anything unless the little man decided to be brave.
“You’re which one?” Sutro asked without turning his head.
“Just a feller admires the manly sport,” Lassiter said. “You understand.”
“Not now and not later, friend,” Sutro answered.
The Kid was getting too close to Sutro. Lassiter drew his gun and cocked it. “Stay back, Chocolate,” he said. “Try to jump this man with my gun on him, you won’t get to fight at all. Not with a broken leg.”
The Kid stopped moving.
“What about it, Sutro?” Lassiter wanted to know. “Now or later, it’s fine with me. But I do want to see that fight.”
“Mind if I see who you are?” Sutro asked.
“Turn the other way from your gun.”
Sutro did it slowly, turning around left, the long way for a man who wore his gun on the right side. He looked at Lassiter and smiled his tight foxy smile.
“Now we’re engaged,” Lassiter said.
Chapter Two
SUTRO AND HIS sidekick went out, but the Kid didn’t move. He stood there wild with whiskey, set to start beating on muscle and bone. The rings glittered on his huge hands and he made a few jabs at the air. Lassiter thought any one of those jabs would be enough to knock him down.
“Who asked you to mix in?” the Kid rumbled at Lassiter.
Rotating the full glass of whiskey in his left hand, Lassiter didn’t answer.
“I asked you a question,” the Kid said.
“Save it for the big fight,” Lassiter said. “Do your talking to Yankee Nolan.”
A left hook came at Lassiter’s face, but the Kid was fuzzy with whiskey. He got more whiskey—in the eyes. Lassiter tossed the whiskey, pulled the Colt .44 with the other hand, and belted the Kid twice—both sides of the head. The big black gasped and shook his bullet head like a wounded buffalo that can’t make out what’s happening to him.
“Take him,” Lassiter said. “Before he gets himself killed.”
The manager and the two other men jumped on the Kid and dragged him outside. Lassiter walked out to see how they were doing. He saw the flash of nickeled handcuffs in the dark, then heard a click. The manager said to the two men: “Get him bedded down, for chrissake. Use the drops if you have to.”
Some of the drinkers had followed Lassiter outside. He started to walk away toward the O.K. Hotel—half the places were O.K. this and that after the big shootout—when the Kid’s manager came puffing after him. “Hey, don’t walk so fast, mister,” he said. “Mind if I have a word with you?”
“Sure,” Lassiter answered, slowing down so the barrel-bodied man wouldn’t die in his tracks.
“My name is Dan Bogardus,” the manager offered, “Ought to get more exercise and cut down on the mashed potatoes, I guess.”
Lassiter looked sideways at him. “What you ought to do is get that boy of yours under control. Somebody will just have to shoot him if he keeps on like that. The Kid may be the fiercest thing since the original mountain lion, but all it’ll take is a crippled runt with a whore’s .32 to put out his lamp. The wonder to me is it hasn’t happened long since.”
