The Legend of Caleb York

by Mickey Spillane

  Once he’d taken over all the surrounding ranches, and could establish one big spread, he would stick a badge on somebody else’s shirt, Rhomer maybe or some other fool he could control, and become the land baron he was born to be.

  Despite the music and raucous laughter, maybe half of the patrons had noticed Gauge come in. They would squint at him, frown a little, and look away. These were better men than the lily-livered townspeople, but they feared him, too. A badge with a fast gun to back it remained the ideal way to keep the peace . . . and people in their place.

  Among those who’d spotted Gauge was Lola, who threaded around tables and wheels toward him, nodding and speaking and smiling to cowboys as she went. She approached Gauge with a smile—he knew she wouldn’t stay mad at him long—and they found a table in the corner, away from the merriment.

  “Looks like a decent night,” Gauge said, “considering.”

  “Not bad,” she admitted. “We’ve been busier. What do you mean, ‘considering’?”

  “That Meadow kid gettin’ planted this morning,” he said with a shrug. “Might put a damper on any Bar-O boys stoppin’ by for fun and games.”

  She frowned and glanced around. “I don’t see any Bar-O boys, at that.” Then her dark eyes were on him. “But that kind usually likes a good time after one of their own gets a send-off. A little drink, a little lovin’, can make death seem far away.”

  “You got a point.”

  She was studying him now. “Why aren’t they here, really?”

  A bartender delivered Gauge a beer that the sheriff hadn’t needed to order.

  “Could be,” Gauge said, after a sip that required sleeving foam off his upper lip, “they got their hands full out at the Bar-O this evening.”

  Lola glanced around again. “Some of your bunch aren’t here, either. No Rhomer. None of your other . . . deputies.”

  “Could be they was busy tonight.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Something you want to share with me, Harry?”

  “It’s nothing to do with the Victory, other than maybe we’re short a few patrons. Don’t worry your sweet, little head.”

  “I’ll try not to strain myself.”

  He leaned in, put a hand on a lace-gloved one of hers. “You put your girls onto that matter of mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “You check back with them yet?”

  “I have. The girls say no new faces to speak of.”

  He frowned. “ ‘To speak of’?”

  “The Larson spread’s been hiring on hands. For roundup, I guess.” She nodded toward the bar. “Those three down at this end are takin’ in the Victory for the first time.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Of course, there’s only one that might pique your interest.”

  Which cowboy she meant was obvious—he stood out for a couple of reasons. He was a good six feet, and most cowboys, like the two bookending him, were smaller men. Ranchers tended to hire smaller hands to make it easier on the horses. The bigger cowboy didn’t look familiar, and yet he did. He was a type Harry Gauge knew very well.

  The man had a hard edge to him while lacking the dark, leathery look of those who worked under the sun on horseback day upon day. About thirty, with barbered brown hair, he had a rugged, scarred face and a well-tended mustache that belied his cowboy apparel. And the smile he was giving Pearl, one of Lola’s girls, had a confident nastiness to it.

  Gauge said, “Get her over here.”

  Lola turned toward the girl, quickly caught her eye and waved her over. She came right over and sat with them, rightly nervous to be honored with an audience with the sheriff.

  Gauge said to her, “Enlighten me.”

  Pearl, a skinny brunette whose prettiness was getting blurred by too much laudanum, said, “He’s working for Ben Larson.”

  “That much I know.”

  “Says he’s from Cheyenne. I already talked to some of the other Bar-L fellas, and nobody knows anything about him but his name.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Smith.”

  Funny as that was, he neither smiled nor laughed. “How long has Smith been working for Larson?”

  “Oh, just signed on today.”

  “Just today?”

  “Late afternoon. Rode in looking for work, Larson took him on. The boys say Smith told them he’s never worked as a cowhand before, but he’s lookin’ to ‘turn over a new leaf.’ ”

  “What kind of ‘new leaf’?”

  Pearl narrowed her eyes; they were the same dark blue as her satin gown. “One feller said he asked Smith what his trade had been, you know, before? And Smith just said, ‘Workin’ one side of the law or the other.’ ”

  “Pearl honey,” Gauge said, “go back to the cowboy who told you that and send him over here. No fuss. On the quiet.”

  Pearl nodded and was getting up, but the sheriff stopped her by the elbow.

  He added, “Then go back and keep that Smith cowboy company.”

  “Take him upstairs?”

  “No. Stay there at the bar. If he wants to go upstairs, tell him you have to wait for a room. Lay on the charm.”

  Pearl smiled slyly and nodded. Then she went off to find the Bar-L hand who had told her about Smith.

  Vaguely suspicious, Lola said, “Okay, your wheels are turning. I can hear ’em, Harry, and they could use some grease.”

  “Why? You think you know what I’m thinkin’?”

  She gave him a slow nod. “You think that big, tall cowboy is Banion, or somebody like him.”

  Gauge said nothing.

  She leaned in. “Maybe you been hanging around that dope Rhomer too long. How could Banion get here today?”

  “Might not be Banion. Like you said, might be somebody like him.”

  She smirked. “Old Man Cullen sends a wire this morning, and Banion is getting a job at Larson’s by late afternoon?”

  He looked at her hard. “Maybe Cullen’s partner in Denver knew somebody in the area. You can send a wire damn near anywhere these days. We’re only thirty miles from Ellis. A man on a good mount, leaving late morning, could make that. And the Swenson spread is on the northeast, on the way to Ellis.”

  She was shaking her head, dark curls bouncing. “And you think Banion or some other top gunhand was just sittin’ in some saloon in Ellis, waiting for a wire to come in, requesting his services?”

  “What I think,” Gauge said, “is that a man should be careful. And a woman should watch her mouth.”

  Lola said nothing, just leaned back and sat there, burning.

  Gauge watched the rugged-looking character at the bar, working on a beer. Pearl sashayed up and began flirting again with the man calling himself Smith. He seemed to like the attention.

  The cowhand who came over, having been sent by Pearl, had his hat in hands as he stood before the sheriff.

  “You want to talk to me, Sheriff Gauge?”

  Gauge knew the man a little, Frank Harper, a typical cowboy of medium size with a droopy, untrimmed mustache, long, unkempt hair, and leathery skin. His face was narrow, his eyes wary under a shelf of shaggy brows.

  “Sit down, Frank,” Gauge said, friendly but not overdoing it. “Can I buy you a drink? Beer? Shot of rye?”

  “Kind of you, Sheriff,” he said, “but I’m in the middle of a game. Just lost my”—he glanced at Lola, who was sitting listening, her arms folded—“shirt trying to draw to an inside straight. How can I be of help?”

  “This Smith,” Gauge said, barely nodding toward the bar, “just rode in this afternoon, I understand. You make him for a gunhand? Don’t have a cowboy look.”

  “Funny you should say. There’s . . .” But something caught in Frank’s throat.

  “What is it, Frank?”

  “Sir, I don’t want to speak out of turn. I know things between you and my boss can sometimes get . . . a tad tense. But you can understand, a body has to be loyal to the man that pays him.”

  “There’s no bad bloo
d between me and your boss. Ben Larson and me just been wrangling over price. No secret I been tryin’ to buy him out for over a year.”

  “No secret at all. And I’m just a cowpoke earnin’ his monthly wages, and I don’t want to be smack-dab in the middle of anything.”

  “Frank, you’re not in the middle of a damn thing. Just tell me about Smith.”

  He sighed and the droopy mustache shuddered. “Well, Mr. Larson is takin’ on hands for roundup. But he’s keepin’ an eye on men who would make good drovers, for when we head the herd to Las Vegas.”

  “Makes sense,” Gauge allowed. Las Vegas, New Mexico, with its railroad, was a two-day cattle drive away.

  “Well, uh, there’s, uh, rustlers and bad men of various stripe out there on the trail that you can run into.”

  “So I hear.”

  “So Mr. Larson has been particular about who he hires on. There’s certain, uh . . . skills he’d prefer they have.”

  “Skills such as?”

  Frank lifted two palms. “Now, don’t get the idea that Mr. Larson is takin’ on gunhands. No, sir. He just wants men that can handle themselfs in a tough sitch-i-ation.”

  “Right. Just good business, Frank. Are you saying Smith is good with a gun?”

  Very quietly, holding his hat to his chest like a shield, Frank said, “I’m just sayin’ that Mr. Larson tries to see what kinda skills any hands he takes on has.”

  “Did he ask Mr. Smith to demonstrate his skills?”

  Frank nodded. “The boss lined up some bottles on these fence posts and had Smith show how he could shoot. And, Sheriff, let me tell you—the man can shoot! Knocked every bottle off their darn perch.”

  “Taking his time?”

  “No, sir! Blasting away!”

  “Fast, is he?”

  “Greased lightning. Faster than almost anybody I ever seen.”

  Gauge smiled a little. “Just out of curiosity, Frank . . . who is the fastest you’ve ever seen?”

  Frank’s grin was a sly yellow thing. “Why, do you even have to ask, Sheriff? You are, without a darn doubt.”

  “You flatter me.”

  Frank’s eyebrows went up and his eyes widened. “Is that all, Sheriff? Can I get back to my game? They’ll only hold my chair so long.”

  “You surely can.”

  With a relieved smile, Frank got to his feet; though just as he was leaving, the sheriff called out to him.

  “Oh, and Frank?”

  “Yes, Sheriff?”

  “You do know how bad the odds are, drawing to an inside straight?”

  Frank grinned. “I know it, Sheriff. Not that the knowledge ever done me a lick of good.”

  The cowboy ambled back to his game.

  “Well,” Gauge said quietly to Lola, “maybe the odds that Smith is Banion are about the same as filling an inside straight.”

  “Worse, I’d say,” Lola said.

  “Even so,” Gauge said, smiling pleasantly, taking off his badge and slipping it in a pocket, “we can’t have these ranchers hiring on gunhands. Not a good policy.”

  He rose and was moving past her when she gripped his arm, probably to beg him to be careful.

  But what she said was “Gauge, if you start something, take it outside. We don’t need a mess to clean up or any broken furniture or mirrors to replace.”

  “Your concern is touching, honey,” he said with a sneer, and headed over to the bar, putting some drunken swagger into his gait.

  There were no spaces at the bar, which gave Gauge his play. The rugged cowboy and a bowlegged buddy were standing sideways, leaning against the counter, talking, beers in hand. Gauge shoved in between them, pushing each aside hard, making them lose their balance and spill the glasses a bit.

  Some of the big man’s beer got on Gauge’s shirtsleeve, and the sheriff—who without a badge seemed just a surly drunk—snarled, “Look what you done, you clod! Get the hell out of my way!”

  The scar-faced gunman glared at the drunk.

  And gunman was what he was—no cowboy, not with that single-loop holster home to a Colt double-action Army revolver tied down low on his right thigh.

  The shootist was sizing up the obnoxious drunk standing before him. The long oak bar was clearing of customers as whispered warnings were exchanged.

  Finally, Smith, with a near smile, said, “No need for trouble, friend. Plenty of room here, now.”

  Gauge kept his speech slurry. “Why don’t you go straight to hell and find your own damn room?”

  The gunman raised his hands, waist-high, palms out. “You spilled my beer. Why don’t you buy me another? And I’ll take the next round.”

  “You deaf? I said, go to hell!”

  Smith’s hard features hardened further. His hand drifted toward the holstered Colt, but he stopped short. “You’ve had too much to drink, friend. Why don’t you just back off and stop asking for trouble.”

  Weaving, Gauge slurred, “Trouble? Who’s gonna give it to me . . . a mangy dog like you?”

  By now, the hard face had turned to stone, and a powerful-looking hand hovered above the butt of the holstered Colt.

  Smith said, “Time you shut that big mouth, mister. Or I am going to shut it for you.”

  Still playing drunk, Gauge said, “Try it, why don’t you? Or maybe you ain’t got the guts?”

  Slowly, Smith moved away from the bar about two feet. Gauge, still loose-limbed, mirrored him. They faced each other, three feet apart.

  Smith said, “Buddy, you just had one too many. That ain’t worth dyin’ over.”

  “So you’re talk. All talk. Just another lily–livered talker!”

  Smith went for his gun and Gauge pulled his .44 and blasted three times, shots placed so close they tore a hole in his opponent’s belly from which bloody intestines spilled like snakes fleeing a disturbed nest. The gunman had his gun in hand, but it had only just made it out of the holster, and he wouldn’t be firing it now or ever. Smith, or whatever the hell his name was, was too busy dying a terrible death, setting an example for any other gunhands playing at cowboy who might be looking on.

  Somebody grabbed Gauge from behind, by the upper arms, and shouted, “Get the sheriff!”

  Gauge glanced back—it was the smaller cowboy who Smith had been talking to at the bar—and shoved his left elbow back into the little man’s ribs. The cowboy yowled and fell back, and the grip on Gauge’s arms popped open into fingers.

  Gauge took a step away, facing the bar and the stunned cowboy, with the gasping, bleeding Smith on the floor nearby, curled up as if to guard the gory mess that had poured out of him. Gauge kicked the revolver from the dying man’s hand and got his badge out of his pocket and pinned it back on.

  “I am the sheriff,” Gauge said, not shouting it but loud, directing it to the smaller cowboy but wanting everyone to hear.

  Gauge sent a bartender to fetch Doc Miller, though Smith would obviously soon be the undertaker’s purview.

  Then the sheriff turned to the shocked faces of his patrons—frozen in mid-game or mid-dance, the music having stopped when the gunfire began—and his voice was a preacher’s on Sunday morning.

  “This is an example for any shootists who think they can come to Trinidad and pretend to be honest cowhands! Spread the word, gentlemen. I will keep this town . . . and this saloon . . . safe!”

  There was a rumble of murmured conversation.

  Gauge spoke again, just as loud: “The show is over. The house is buying one round, and then get back to your cards and what-have-you!”

  A free drink forgave many sins, and the place was soon raucous again, with no pall whatever cast by the dead man with his guts hanging out on the floor near the bar.

  Lola appeared at Gauge’s side.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m glad we didn’t invest in that Oriental carpet.”

  “I detect a tone of disapproval.”

  “I asked you to please take it outside.”

  “Would not have got my point across as
well.”

  “You didn’t have to do that at all. That man was creating no disturbance, and I don’t see what threat he gave you.”

  “He might be Banion, for all we know.”

  “And he might not,” she said, shaking her head. “And without finding that out first, what good did you do?”

  “I’ll find out who he was, don’t worry about that.”

  She was studying him again, and something strange was in her expression.

  “What is it, honey?”

  “You just killed a man, Harry. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “No. Should it?”

  Lola sighed, rolled her eyes, and began moving through the casino, smiling, friendly with her customers, getting the free-spending mood going again.

  Gauge sat at a corner table with a bottle and his back to the wall, keeping an eye on things. Maybe Smith had a friend among the other new cowhands at the Bar-L. Always paid to be careful.

  He watched dispassionately as Doc Miller pronounced Smith dead—you needed a doctor’s degree to do that?—and had a couple cowhands dump the corpse in a basket, cover it with a sheet before directing them out with it.

  Sawed-off and plump, in a dark gray suit that looked slept in, the white-haired doc trundled over, black bag in hand, though he hadn’t opened it. The operation here required a mop, not a scalpel.

  “Doin’ quite a business tonight,” the doc said in his dry, folksy manner.

  “Are we? I only remember killing one fool.”

  “Well, there’s a live fool who dropped off two of your men at my office. Last half hour, I been tendin’ ’em.”

  Gauge sat up. “What live fool?”

  “Take a wild guess.”

  “Rhomer.”

  The doc nodded. “He said to ask you to get over to your office, quick. I’m going to guess it’s not good news.”

  Gauge collected Lola and walked her down the chilly moon-swept street to the office, where Rhomer was milling outside, looking like a naughty child awaiting Papa’s punishment.

  “What happened?” Gauge asked as he unlocked the door.

  They all went in. Nervous, Rhomer sat across from Gauge. Lola stood in back of the desk, looming just behind the sheriff.