Shoot-Out at Sugar Creek (A Caleb York Western Book 6)

by Mickey Spillane

  Colman nodded. “Probably not any, y’get down to it.”

  “Those three gents stand out, and not just ’cause you have ’em positioned all along this stretch of sand.”

  “Stand out how, Sheriff?”

  “They kill for money.”

  “Like soldiers.”

  York nodded a few times. “You could say that. But I’m here in hopes of keepin’ a war from breakin’ out. What’s your intention, should the Bar-O boys herd their stock to this stream?”

  Colman flipped a hand toward Sugar Creek. “My notion, since you ask, is to start shootin’ into the air. That’ll rile the beeves, and they’ll start stampedin’. Who can say which way they’ll go? But if they head back from whence they come, well, that’s fine. Some’ll likely scatter off down the shore, in one direction or t’other, and them Bar-O cowboys can earn their pay roundin’ ’em up.”

  York squinted at the ramrod. “What if some of them cows head this way? If you shoot those strays on the swim, you’ll foul your own water source. What if that stampede heads for these pines, with your boss lady’s ranch house in back of there? You want those steers in her lap?”

  Colman grunted a laugh. “You ain’t a cattleman, are you, York? Ain’t gonna go that way. The water’d slow ’em down, and then we got a whole mess of cowboys on hand to round ’em up. Any steer makes it into the pines will be slowed down by ’em, and we’ll pick them up, too.”

  “To rustle them, you mean. And use a branding iron to change G to O?”

  Colman grinned. “Now we’re gettin’ a mite ahead of ourselves, Sheriff.”

  “Clay!”

  It was Bassett. He was pointing across the way. “Here they come!”

  Through those scrubby trees emerged men on horseback. They were not riding hard—the landscape didn’t lend itself to that. But they were soon lined up all along the grassy stretch above the white bank opposite, reining their horse back with one hand, a handgun in the other.

  In the middle, in the lead, was Bill Jackson. Among many other familiar faces from the Bar-O bunkhouse were three newcomers—York knew at once these were the gunfighters Willa had enlisted. The three killers on horseback were spaced out much as Colman’s were . . .

  Frank Duffy, a sometime lawman, broad of shoulder, hard of eye, oldest man here and tallest in a battered top hat that emphasized that height.

  “Buck” O’Fallon, not big, not small, an erudite fellow who had also once worn a badge, his hat wide brimmed, his bow tie loose and floppy.

  And—most disturbingly—Manning Clements, the cock-eyed cousin of that deadly loco gunman John Wesley Hardin, who Manning had devoted much of his misguided life to emulating.

  York brushed Colman aside and walked down through the Circle G boys, all of whom stood with hands hovering over holstered handguns, and walked right up to the water’s edge. The beautiful flowing stream sparkled with sunlight, oblivious to the tension it was engendering.

  As their horses danced in place, Jackson was in the midst of his men, with Clements beside him. York assumed that was because Jackson likely realized how dangerous Hardin’s cousin was and wanted to keep an eye on him.

  “Bill,” York called out, and it echoed across the water, “you know who I am—and for anyone who doesn’t, I’m Caleb York, sheriff of San Miguel County! You are on Circle G land. Return to the Bar-O! I intend to solve this conflict peaceably!”

  Jackson yelled back, “We are not here to fight! Not today. We only want to send a message.”

  “What message?”

  “That if a shooting war need be, we are armed and ready. All we ask is to water our stock before they die of thirst.”

  “Guns won’t settle this.”

  “Whose side are you on, Caleb York?”

  “The law. The county. And right now you’re trespassing, and you need to ride off and let this matter take its lawful course.”

  “What if that bunch starts shooting first?”

  “Whoever does that, on whichever side, deals with me! I am right now asking both groups to retreat. To disperse. Until this can be resolved the right way.”

  In days to come—even in years to pass—conflicting accounts and arguments on either side would wage a war of words over what happened next. But at that moment words weren’t the ammunition.

  Manning Clements’s right arm stretched out with his Colt .45 in his fist and the crack echoed across the stream.

  Caleb York drew his .44 and returned fire.

  When the bullet entered Manning’s forehead, the impact briefly uncrossed the man’s eyes and sent him tumbling off the horse, dead before he hit the grassy, sandy ground.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A terrible two seconds passed in which general gunfire might have broken out and carnage would have stained scarlet the white banks on either side of Sugar Creek.

  Perhaps it was the rearing of the horses under the Bar-O boys that prevented the third second from being filled with blood and gunsmoke. Maybe it was Willa’s crew already having their guns in hand that gave the Circle G crowd momentary pause, or possibly the frantic, unsettling whinnies and neighs of the horses behind them, tied to pines.

  Finally it was Caleb York himself moving to the very edge of the water—holding a palm out behind him to the men whose hands hovered over their sidearms—as he shouted, “Collect your men and go, Jackson! Or there’ll be nothing but dead men left to do it.”

  Jackson, still settling his horse, said nothing, but to his credit he too was signaling his men with an upraised palm to hold back.

  Then the Bar-O foreman shouted, “You’ll have to answer for this, Sheriff!”

  York’s voice echoed across the stream, which ran along on its almost languid way, untouched by human conflict. “Tell your mistress I will call on her yet today! If there’s to be killing, let it wait!”

  The tension in the air was palpable—the Bar-O riders with their guns trained, the Circle G men on their feet with hands over holstered weapons.

  The horse under him steady now, Jackson climbed down and, with the help of another cowhand, draped the body of Manning Clements over the dead man’s saddle. Jackson spoke to his helper, who nodded, and then was heading back through the scrubby trees leading the corpse’s horse.

  “This don’t end it!” Jackson called, ready to ride again.

  And with a sweeping hand motion, the foreman led the cowpunchers and the two remaining gunhands away, with only scowls thrown back at their opponents and, thankfully, not bullets.

  The rough bunch on the Circle G shore laughed and boasted and milled, and several came over to slap the sheriff on the back. York—relieved though he was to have limited this encounter to one fatality—was in no mood for congratulation.

  Then Colman was at his side, for once wearing neither smirk nor sneer, but in no celebratory mood, either. “This ain’t over.”

  “Not by a long shot,” York agreed.

  Now half a grin formed. “Speakin’ of which, Sheriff, that was a hell of a shot. Just don’t tell me you were aimin’ for the horse.”

  “No.”

  Colman looked narrow-eyed at York. “At this distance, you went for a head shot with a six-gun?”

  York was staring across the stream, where the only sign of the riders now were some puffs of dust and a splotch of red on the grassy, sandy incline.

  He said, “I pretty much always go for a head shot.”

  “Interestin’ choice,” Colman said. “Kinda risky, though. Chest gives you a bigger target. That’s always my inclination.”

  “Head-shot men don’t return fire. But the next time that Bar-O bunch comes around, you can bet they will.” York shifted his gaze to the ramrod. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to break this party up. Maybe leave a couple of men at your campfires to keep an eye out.”

  “If I do anything,” Colman said, “it’ll be t’bring the rest of the G’s punchers in from the range, and spread this armed camp out farther to the north and south.”


  “Fuel to the fire.”

  “Maybe so, but we didn’t light it.” Colman’s chin came up. “You’re right about this much, York—they’ll be back and they will be shooting.”

  “Maybe not. I do intend to talk to Willa Cullen, yet today. Maybe this loss of a life will get her to see reason.” York allowed himself a sigh. “I would appreciate it if you’d do the same with Mrs. Hammond.”

  The ramrod shook his head. “Can’t do that, Sheriff.”

  “Why in hell not?”

  The ramrod shrugged. “Against my best interests. I wasn’t just hired to do a foreman’s job, you know. I could lie to you and say otherwise, but what’s the point?”

  “None. We both know Victoria Hammond took you on as much for your gunfighter skills as your cattle know-how.”

  Colman turned toward the pines that separated them from the ranch house. His hands were on his hips. “Now that we know they’re coming, I’ll only post lookouts on the shore. Rest of us will be in the trees. With our rifles. It will be a damn slaughter.”

  York’s eyes were narrow as he said, “Your boys best not fire the first shot.”

  Colman got his smirky grin going. “The first shot, Sheriff, they already fired . . . and you fired the second one.”

  He had indeed.

  “And,” Colman was saying, “I don’t imagine, next time around, they’ll be anybody left on the other side of the creek to say who fired the first round in the second battle of this fracas. And it’s coming. It’s coming.”

  “And I,” York said bitterly, “am going.”

  And the sheriff strode off the beach and into the trees.

  Behind him rowdy cowboys and killers were applauding him, the sound of it like gunshots echoing off the waters.

  * * *

  Looking very much the tomboy her late papa had raised on this ranch—hair up, plaid shirt, denims, boots—Willa Cullen stood tall on the porch, arms folded, waiting for Caleb’s arrival.

  For half an hour or so, she’d been stewing, pacing, before settling into this stiff, unwelcoming posture, after Bill Jackson brought her the bad news about the death of one of the three gunhands they’d taken on.

  Including the particularly bad news that the sheriff had been the perpetrator of the deed.

  From his expression on horseback as he drew nearer, she knew Caleb could read her mood. He looked ashen but not ashamed; he called out no greeting, didn’t even nod. Just rode up and climbed off the gelding and tied it up at the hitching rail.

  Of course, she didn’t call to him or nod, either.

  She noted that he’d left the badge pinned to his gray shirt—he never wore the tin when he called on her!—and he took his hat off there at the bottom of the steps, like a stranger come to call, showing respect but no familiarity.

  With a nod, he said, “Willa.”

  Not a stranger, then.

  “Caleb.”

  “Could we go inside and talk?”

  Her instinct was no—he could stay down there, and not set foot even on the steps to this house, much less go in, not after what he’d done.

  But a few ranch hands were around—Harmon and his helper in the cookhouse, old wrangler Lou Morgan who managed the barns, a few others—so maybe privacy was called for.

  She answered his question with a nod and turned her back on him, his footsteps clunking on the stairs behind her, spurs jangling. Getting to the door before he could catch up and hold it open for her, she went in and moved immediately across the living room and deposited herself in one of the rough-hewn chairs her late father had fashioned before she was born. She sat facing a fireplace that right now was as cold as she was. Almost.

  She heard him close the door—as gently as that big door could be closed. Then his footsteps came again. Slow but steady.

  He came around in front of her—fireplace at his back, hat in hand, chin lowered, but not cowed—and his eyes met hers.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” he said simply.

  “Sorry that you killed one of my men?”

  “Jackson reported to you, I assume.”

  “He did.”

  The chin lifted, the eyes remained on her. “Did he tell you that your shootist took it upon himself to fire? That he shot first? And not on your foreman’s order?”

  “. . . He did.”

  “Would you have me not return fire if a man shoots at me?”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, he shot specifically at you?”

  Caleb thought about that, then said, “I can’t rightly say. I don’t think he knew who he was shooting at. And he hit no one, thank God. But he was in a group of armed men facing down another group of armed men, and I would say he panicked.”

  “Did you know who you were shooting at?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you panic?”

  “No.”

  “Did you attempt to wound him?”

  “No. It’s a rare instance when I pull on a man and don’t mean to put him down.”

  “And this wasn’t one of those rare instances.”

  “No. I meant to kill him.” He shook his head, just a little. “We’re talking about decisions made in a moment. In a piece of a moment.”

  She looked at him for a while. Then: “How many men have you killed, Caleb?”

  “I don’t keep track.”

  “I believe that’s a lie. I believe you do.”

  He hedged: “I was in the war. You don’t know how many of your bullets take a life in battle.”

  “You fought for the North.”

  “I did.”

  “Who did you fight for today?”

  “Willa . . .”

  She could feel the red rising up her throat. “That rabble the Hammond witch hired on, they’re mostly Arizona trash. They fought for the South, if they fought at all. My boys, those that were in the war, fought for the North.”

  He was shaking his head, slowly. “That’s no way to look at it, Willa. . . .”

  “What made you switch sides, Caleb?”

  “I did not switch sides.”

  “What made you take sides . . . against me?”

  And then she did something that she hated herself for, right then and later too: she lost control and the rage came boiling out, her cheeks hot, her eyes brimming.

  She bit off the words: “Against me!”

  “. . . That’s not how I look at it.”

  She could not stop her chin from trembling. “What else would you call it? You’d side with that Hammond woman? Over me?”

  He raised a hand. “You hired gunmen, Willa. And sent your men onto your neighbor’s ground to take what wasn’t yours. And to burn powder if need be doing it.”

  “To defend what’s mine! This ranch! What my father built!”

  He took a deep breath. Let it out. “I work for the county. The law isn’t on your side in this . . . and I am the law. That’s what they pay me for, to enforce it. So in that sense I suppose I am . . . on the opposite side. I have encouraged Victoria Hammond to engage her lawyer to talk to yours and work this out in a peaceable way.”

  Her eyebrows climbed. “You talked to her?”

  “I talked to her.”

  “And now you’ve killed for her!”

  He shook his head, once. “I shot a man of questionable character who you hired to carry a gun for you, Willa. Who while on the property of the neighbor you are squabbling with . . .”

  “Squabbling!”

  “. . . fired his gun in the direction of that neighbor’s hired men, and might easily’ve incited wholesale slaughter if I didn’t wade in.”

  Her upper lip curled. “You waded in by killing him.”

  A single nod. “I did.”

  His expression was as cold as her cheeks felt hot.

  “You need to handle this in a peaceful way,” he told her. “A legal way. Or else I have to quit my job and be just another gun you hired on. Maybe you’d rather I took that San Diego position with Pinkerton’s. They wrote me ju
st last month—I’m still wanted.”

  Her smile had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling. “You should be happy somebody still wants you. Go! Quit! Run off to your precious San Diego and big-city ways! See if I care.” The childishness of those last words embarrassed her, and she looked away.

  He leaned in and put a hand on her shoulder, his voice softening. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave Trinidad and I sure as hell don’t want to leave you.”

  She swallowed. She couldn’t look at him. Tears were flowing now and she hated herself for them. Hated herself!

  “The world’s changing, Willa. You have a chance to sell the Bar-O after that cripplin’ winter made a shambles of it.”

  “Sell! She’s offering pennies!”

  “Just hold on. Think about it. I’m going to be making right handsome money and they’re even giving me that house. I’m not just county sheriff now, I’m town marshal. You don’t need to fight this war. You love this place. I’m partial to it myself. But your father is gone. The cattle business is a mess. You’ve been after me for . . . how long? To put roots down in Trinidad. To marry you and settle here. Well, I’m willing to.”

  That snapped her out of it. No tears, but plenty of rage, a rage turned cold now.

  She shoved him away, hard, and he stumbled back into the stone hearth. On her feet, she said, “Don’t do me any damn favors, Caleb York!”

  Hands came up in surrender. “That came out poorly. . . .”

  “No, it was exactly what you think, exactly what you feel. But there’s a favor you can do me—get the hell out!”

  He swallowed, nodded, stuffed his hat on his head, and rounded the seating area, then walked quickly across the room, his spurs chasing him, and out the door. She almost ran, following him.

  From the top of the steps, she saw him get up on the gray horse.

  “At least I know where you stand!” she yelled.

  Then, after he was gone, she said softly, “At least I know where you stand,” and headed back inside, in no hurry.

  * * *

  Raven-haired Rita Filley, the queen of the Victory Saloon—her full-breasted, otherwise slender shape nicely accommodated by a blue-and-gray satin gown—surveyed her kingdom.