The Legend of Caleb York

by Mickey Spillane

  All around Willa were the faces of men tolerating her, not really taking her words into account. “Gentlemen . . . Papa . . . there has to be a better way to stop Harry Gauge than calling upon hired killers.”

  Her father said nothing for several long seconds. Finally he said, “Best you stay out of it, Willa. This ain’t the kind of thing for a woman to decide.”

  Flushed, she stood and left the table, but she didn’t leave the room. She went back to quietly refilling coffee cups. She wanted to hear anything these oh-so-wise city fathers had to say. So much in her life was riding on the decisions her father and his too-timid friends were making.

  The mayor, smoothing his perfect, perfectly waxed mustache, said, “I think we should find out if this is indeed Wes Banion. I mean, none of us knows the man by sight, just reputation.”

  The banker said, “Well, you’re the mayor, Jasper. Why don’t you approach him?”

  “And if Sheriff Gauge sees me? Mr. Cullen . . . George . . . you sent for him. Isn’t it more appropriate that you make contact?”

  The druggist said, “If George is seen talking to that gunfighter, by Gauge or any of his men, the only person to profit will be undertaker Perkins.”

  “I’ll do it,” Willa said.

  Everyone looked at her. She was at her father’s shoulder now, having just refilled his cup.

  Looking toward her voice, Papa said, “Daughter . . . what are you—”

  “The stranger and I chatted briefly. He seemed friendly enough. He seemed . . . to like me well enough. I could approach him, easily, and if Harry Gauge or any of his outlaw deputies notice, they won’t do anything about it. They won’t like it, but . . . they won’t do anything.”

  Her father’s milky eyes were on her, and he was frowning.

  Then a shrewd expression came over the weathered features and he said, “There are things a woman can manage that a man can’t. Yes, daughter, I think you’re the one to have word with Banion.”

  “Or whoever he is.”

  “Or whoever he is. But whoever he is, he knows his way around a gun, and that’s what we need right now.”

  Her frown got into her voice. “Papa, I won’t hire your killers for you.”

  He reached for her hand and found it. “Not asking you to, girl. Just see if you can get a name out of him. And, whatever it might be, ask him if he knows Raymond Parker of Denver . . . who happens to be an old friend of your father’s.”

  A meeting of a related nature, but of an entirely different sort, was under way in Sheriff Harry Gauge’s office. No coffee here—just a bottle of whiskey and some scattered glasses. Nobody had been at the door to take their hats for them and, with the exception of the sheriff himself whose Stetson was on a hook behind him, the attendees kept their lids on.

  Seated across from Gauge at his desk were Deputy Vint Rhomer and two rough-looking gunnies with deputy badges pinned on their shirts. After what happened this morning to Riley and Jackson, the sheriff had handed out deputy badges to all his bunch.

  Lanky, dark-haired, dark-eyed Jake Britt wore a gray shirt, black vest, fairly new Levi’s, and a low-slung Colt . 44. His face was narrow, his mustache and eyebrows thick, smudgy dark stubble on cheeks and chin. He had killed half-a-dozen men that Gauge knew of.

  Short, burly Lars Manning was blue-eyed and blond, like the sheriff; they might have been brothers but weren’t. Manning wore a dark blue twill army shirt and knee- and seat-patched denims with a .45 fairly high on his hip. Manning was responsible for at least four killings, plus the occasional Mexican.

  Both men were veterans of holdups and robberies from Gauge’s pre–law enforcement days.

  Britt, who had a languid way about him, seemed to taste his words as he uttered them. “Any shootist who can gun down two men at one time is nobody I care to face down.”

  Manning, more excitable, said, “Word around town is both Jackson and Riley already had their damn guns out when he pulled on ’em!”

  Gauge stared at them in disgust. “Who the hell said anything about facing him down? Ambush the son of a bitch!”

  Britt glanced at Manning, and the two men shrugged at each other, as if such duties were no big deal to either.

  “Townspeople are pretty edgy, though,” Britt said. “We had five shootings around here in two days.”

  Manning said, “I got a feelin’ some of them townsfolk liked seein’ two of our boys go down hard like that. And wouldn’t mind seein’ more of the same.”

  Britt raised four fingers, tucking back his thumb. “Need to tally in Stringer and Bradley, too. Even if that was out on the range.”

  Gauge said harshly, “What these lily livers would like to see happen, and what they’re gonna see happen, are two different things entirely.”

  Sitting forward tentatively, Manning said, “Maybe we should just wait and see.”

  Gauge almost spit the words: “Wait and see what, Lars?”

  “Wait and see if the dude does move on. I mean, I don’t mind gettin’ rid of him, but if he’s already leavin’ of his own accord, why waste the ammunition?”

  “You really think we can afford to let Old Man Cullen . . . and that stranger . . . get away with what they done?”

  Rhomer swallowed some whiskey and said, “The mayor and them others on that citizens committee? Rode out of town together, maybe an hour ago. Headin’ out for a meetin’ at the Cullen spread, I’d wager.”

  “Meetings,” Gauge said with contempt. “They’ve had plenty of those before. A handful of unarmed storekeepers, beatin’ gums at each other.”

  “Yeah,” Rhomer said, “but the way they scrambled to have a powwow, right after somebody made a move against us? That’s somethin’ different. That’s new.”

  Gauge sat forward and spoke through his teeth. “Maybe so, but they won’t have the occasion again.” He grinned at Britt. “Jake, you ain’t squeamish about a spot of bushwhackin’, are you?”

  Britt shrugged. “I take your pay, don’t I? When?”

  “Tonight. After dark, when the only thing awake on Main Street is the Victory. That’s where our dude will likely land. He said something about playin’ cards while he was in town.”

  Rhomer jerked a thumb in the Victory’s direction. “I was just over there. The feller was doin’ just that, playin’ poker. Doin’ pretty well takin’ what little was left of cowpoke pay.”

  The sheriff frowned in thought. “Was Lola around?”

  The deputy nodded. “Talked to her a bit. Says she spent some time with the stranger in friendly conversation, but ain’t got a name out of him yet.”

  Gauge thought, Maybe she didn’t get friendly enough.

  Then he said to Rhomer, “You stop by the hotel like I told you?”

  The deputy nodded. “Our man ain’t checked in yet. With the cowhands sobered up by now, some rooms’ll free up, and he’ll most likely check in tonight.”

  “No, he won’t,” Gauge said, and his grin had a sneer mixed in. “He’ll be checkin’ out before he ever checks in.”

  The sheriff, ever a gracious host, took the whiskey bottle and freshened the glasses of the two men he was designating for bushwhacking duty.

  “Lars,” he said, “head over to the Victory and keep an eye on the stranger. When he makes a move to leave, slip out the side door and meet up with wherever Britt is waiting. You know the rest.”

  “Have the horses ready,” Manning said, nodding, “and back Britt up. You got it, boss.” His grin was chaw-stained. “This dude may be fast, but he ain’t faster than two guns in back of him.”

  Gauge frowned and shook his head. “No, can’t have that. You boys position yourselves in the alley on the way from the Victory to the hotel. On one side of the street, one on the other. When you see him comin’, when he’s in range, Jake, you step out shootin’. Lars, if by some miracle the dude gets his gun out, you come at him from the other side. Just watch out for a cross fire. Can’t have my men killin’ each other. Bad policy.”

  Th
at made Britt smile, but Manning, frowning, asked, “And if somebody sees?”

  Gauge jerked a thumb to his chest. “If there are any complaints, that’s for the town sheriff to handle. You’re both deputies and your orders are to stop trouble before it starts, right?”

  The two men nodded.

  Gauge said, “This dude’s a known killer who was gettin’ ready to pull down on you. Do I need be any plainer than that?”

  “Plain enough,” Britt said, then shrugged and got to his feet. “Not like we ain’t done it before.”

  Manning was on his feet, too, but he seemed a trifle jumpy. “You think this feller really is Banion, Harry?”

  Gauge smirked at his flunky. “What’s the difference, Lars, when it’s an ambush?”

  Britt chuckled deep in his chest. “What’s the big fuss about Banion, anyway?”

  “Are you kiddin’?” Manning said, wide-eyed. “He’s the man that killed Caleb York!”

  “Yeah,” Britt said derisively. “Bushwhacked him!”

  They went out, the taller man shaking his head.

  Gauge leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers, glancing at the remaining deputy. “And after the dude? Cullen goes.”

  Rhomer nodded, sipped some whiskey. “Damn troublemaker. Blind ol’ buzzard. He’s the leader. Get rid of him, rest’ll tuck tail and run. But what about that daughter of his?”

  “What about her?”

  The deputy risked a small smile. “She even suspects you’re responsible for her old man’s death, you won’t have a chance in hell with that one.”

  Gauge gave an easy shrug. “We’ll just have to be more careful about how we handle Mr. Cullen. An elderly feller like that, blind in both eyes? He can go out a whole bunch of ‘accidental’ ways.”

  The door came open with considerable force and Gil Willart, the foreman at Gauge’s main spread—a medium-sized man with an oversized mustache—burst in. He was still in his chaps with the dust of his work powdering them, as well as his blue-striped silk shirt with weave designed to keep the wind out. His olive-shaped, olive-color eyes were bloodshot in a leathery face.

  “Boss,” he said, his deep voice gruff, “we got real trouble.”

  “No kidding.”

  The new arrival swept off his battered hat. “I’m not talkin’ about town trouble. I ain’t interested in them kind of problems, that’s your business. Cattle is mine.”

  Gauge gestured to an open chair. “Sit down. Sit down. Pour yourself one.”

  “I’ll sit, but I won’t drink.” The foreman sat down heavily where Britt had been. “Dee and me just came in off Swenson’s Running C.”

  “What about it?”

  The foreman sighed, shook his head, his upper teeth bared in what wasn’t exactly a smile. “Harry, I told you not to pick up that mangy spread. . . .”

  Gauge sat forward. “What the hell are you talking about, man?”

  The dusty cowboy sighed again, shook his head again. “Half of those hundred and fifty head? Dead as hell. The others are in with our main herd, and if they spread that crap around, as they surely will, you won’t have a steer to your name to sell.”

  Gauge was staring at the man as if he couldn’t bring him into focus. “Spread what around?”

  “. . . The pox.”

  It felt like the world had dropped out from under Gauge.

  What the hell calamity next?

  The sheriff was halfway out of his chair. “Damn it all to hell! How did this happen?”

  “Just does sometimes,” the foreman said with a resigned shrug. “Happens every time you mix infected cows in with healthy ones.”

  “You didn’t just discover it?”

  He shook his head. “Been gradual, over the past three days. We just started spottin’ them, scattered around, buzzard food. At first, I didn’t think it was so bad. Just a kind of isolated thing. Few sick cows . . . now? It’s a damn epidemic. And people catch it, too, you know.”

  Rhomer was sitting forward, squinting at Willart so hard, it was damn near comical. Gauge knew what that meant: his deputy was thinking.

  “What is it, Vint?”

  The deputy started to smile, but it was the way a man smiles who realizes he’s just been taken by a sharpie. “So that’s what Old Man Swenson was givin’ me the horselaugh about. . . .”

  Gauge slammed a fist on his desk and the whiskey bottle damn near spilled. “Explain!”

  Rhomer said, “Old Swenson was over at the Victory a few nights ago. Liquored up to beat the band. Fallin’-down drunk, gigglin’ like a girl, laughin’ and guffawin’. At Lola’s request, I walk him out into the street and dump him in the alley, to sleep it off. He just looks up at me and says the joke is on you.”

  “On you, Rhomer?”

  “No, not me—on you, Gauge.”

  Elbows on his desk, fists tight and going up and down, up and down, Gauge said, “That miserable, low-down chiseler. . . . He must’ve known they was infected when he sold ’em to me!”

  Rhomer said, “He’s been a holdout amongst the smaller ranchers for a good, long time, Harry. Explains why finally, after all this time, he was willin’ to do business.”

  Upper lip curled back, Gauge said, “So he could stick me with a damn diseased herd.... If I could get my hands on him . . .”

  Rhomer said, “Probably long gone now.”

  The foreman shook his head. “No, sir. One of the boys seen Swenson over by the stage relay station. Said he was just camped out near there with his horse . . . and a saddlebag full of bottles and bean cans.”

  Gauge, almost to himself, said, “He’s waitin’ for the stage with the buyers. They’re due in, day after tomorrow.”

  Because of their proximity to Las Vegas—the biggest cattle railhead in New Mexico—buyers would come to Trinidad to make advance offers on herds. They would offer a price slightly under market, but would take entire herds and take a chance on any losses of stock that might occur on the brief cattle drive to the train.

  Rhomer said, “Why the hell is Swenson out waitin’ for the buyers? He don’t have anything to sell ’em! And he’s already got the money you give him, Harry. You’d think he’d light out.”

  “It’s spite, Vint. Pure damn spite. He wants to get to those buyers and tell them my herd’s got the pox before they even talk to me.”

  The foreman, an eyebrow arched, said, “Might be we still got time.”

  Gauge was thinking, nodding. “It’ll be four days, anyway, before those other cows they’re mixed in with show any signs. They’ll be paid for by then. They’ll be loaded up and on those trains and on their way before it shows.”

  Rhomer said, “Yeah, if Old Man Swenson don’t warn them buyers first.”

  Gauge said, “Any suggestions, Vint?”

  “Like maybe send somebody out to the Brentwood Junction relay station?” The deputy grinned. “You know, and just . . . discourage that old boy from talkin’.”

  “Who says you ain’t smart?” He thought briefly, then asked Rhomer, “Was Maxwell over at the Victory?”

  “He was. That was half an hour ago or more.”

  “Well, if he still is, tell him I said ride out there tonight and see if Swenson has my money somewhere in those saddlebags, amongst the booze and beans. Believe I’m due a refund.”

  Rhomer nodded, got to his feet, and was halfway out when the sheriff called to him.

  “And, Vint? Tell Maxwell we want to make sure Mr. Swenson don’t misrepresent himself to no other innocent parties in business transactions in the future.”

  “Already figured that out, Harry,” the deputy said through a nasty smile, and was gone.

  Gauge poured himself some more whiskey. This was a problem, a real problem, one that made having a gunfighter in town pale by way of comparison. Cowpox making his herd unsalable was a huge threat to everything he’d worked for, all that he had planned.

  But Harry Gauge prided himself on meeting problems head-on.

  And he was confident
both would be solved, and soon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Willa rode into town around eight, in plaid shirt and Levi’s, Main Street was dark and deserted, the only light spilling from the windows and doors of the Victory. Moonlight helped, though, and she noticed a distinctive horse tied up in front of Harris Mercantile—dappled gray with a black mane.

  She hitched her calico, Daisy, a ways down from it, then noticed a figure asleep under the boardwalk—that old drunk, Tulley, who’d made a mattress out of a long, plump feed sack he’d pilfered from somewhere.

  She knelt by him, reached a hand in and shook him gently by a shoulder. “Tulley . . . wake up. Come on, Tulley—wake up!”

  The rheumy eyes in the rummy’s white-bearded face fluttered open and shut, open and shut, and finally, like a window shade yanked too hard, stayed open.

  “Well, Miss Cullen . . . good evenin’. What brings you to town after sundown?”

  Ignoring the question, she pointed toward the dappled gelding. “That’s the stranger’s horse, isn’t it?”

  Propping an elbow against the feed sack, Tulley grinned and said, “Shore is. Unusual-looking beast, don’t you think? Handsome in its way.”

  She strove for patience, dealing with the chatty coot. “I thought he’d taken a stall for it down at the livery stable.”

  “Oh, he did, he did, and I helped him do it. But also, he asked me to bring the steed down here around seven and tie it up for him. Said he’s goin’ out for a ride a bit later.”

  “Where to?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Not in some while. Guess he’s still down at the Victory. Been in there pretty much all afternoon and up to now.”

  “Sounds like you two have become real pals.”

  “He’s a good man to know, Miss Cullen.” His eyes came alive. “You saw him in action this mornin’, better than just about anybody. I reckon that—”

  “Is his name Banion?”

  Tulley, eyelids getting heavy, said, “Banion?”

  “Yes, Banion. Is that his name? Tulley!”