The Legend of Caleb York

by Mickey Spillane

  “I told you,” he reminded her. “The intention was to ride out to your ranch and have a talk with your father. Wanted to wait till after dark so as not to advertise.”

  “Your intention, huh? Like your intention to just pass through Trinidad?”

  “Sometimes I get sidetracked.”

  “I’ll lead the way, then,” she said. “Let’s ride out to the Bar-O together.”

  He chuckled. “You sure you know which side I’m on in this fracas?”

  “Not really,” she said. “But I’m starting to get a hunch.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Let’s just say that anybody who guns down four of Harry Gauge’s deputies in one day is at the very least not on the sheriff’s side.”

  “How about your good side?”

  “We’ll see.”

  They rode out together, past Gauge and Deputy Rhomer, who grinned at her lasciviously as they went by.

  She did not hear what Rhomer said to his boss: “You might have to pay a big price, Harry, if you ever want to own that one.”

  Nor did she hear Gauge’s inelegant response: “Shut up,” plus a nasty name she’d never heard, even growing up on a ranch.

  CHAPTER NINE

  They kept the pace brisk, if not hard, on the twenty-minute ride out to the Bar-O.

  They didn’t speak, the stranger lagging just behind Willa, who after all knew the way. They brought their animals to an easy trot as they headed down the hard-packed lane under the overhang displaying the ranch’s brand. The stranger, she noted, was taking it all in with what seemed to her an almost childlike sense of wonder.

  She couldn’t blame him.

  In the ivory moonlight, the ranch buildings had an austere beauty that nearly brought tears to Willa’s eyes, in the midst of this struggle to hold on to what her father had carved out of the wilderness.

  The stranger dismounted and tied up his dappled gelding at the post in front of the main house, where the front-room windows glowed with the muted light of kerosene lamps. She was tying up Daisy when her father came out quickly with foreman Whit Murphy tagging after.

  Papa, as he stood on the porch staring out sightlessly, obviously having heard two horses arrive, called tentatively, “Willa . . . do we have a guest?”

  “We do, Papa,” she said, approaching the stairs up to the porch. The stranger fell in behind her at a respectful distance. “I brought him with me.”

  Her father walked to the edge of the stairs and rested a hand on a rough beam. “I’m guessing there’s a story to be told here, daughter. You don’t have this man at gunpoint by any chance . . . ?”

  The stranger stepped forward, came up alongside her. “No, Mr. Cullen,” he said pleasantly. “And she’s not at gunpoint, either.”

  “Relieved to hear that.”

  “I’m here of my own free will. I presume . . . as a guest.”

  “You are indeed my guest.”

  “Thank you. And there is a story to be told. But I’m going to let Miss Cullen here tell it. She saw all of the action firsthand.”

  The old man’s face, despite the easygoing manner of the stranger’s speech, was taut with concern. “Willa dear, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, adding lightly, “Except for being a target.”

  Perhaps to head off any worry her flippant remark may have caused, the stranger said, “I was the target, sir. But we’re both without a scratch.”

  There, in the moonlight, she gave her father—and Whit, too—a succinct account of the ambush attempt and how their guest had saved her by pushing her to the street, and how he had gunned down his two attackers. She related, too, the way the old desert rat Tulley had made a second witness, leaving Sheriff Gauge helpless to arrest a man who had shot two more of his deputies. Especially there in front of half the town, attracted by the commotion.

  Relieved now, even pleased, her father gestured toward the front door, his eyes seeking the stranger but not quite sure where to look. “Well, I owe you, friend, for my daughter’s safety if nothing else. Come in, come in, both of you. We have much to talk about.”

  The stranger said, his voice absent of inflection, “Do we?”

  She put a hand on his arm. “You’re committed now. I think you’d better.”

  He looked at her, expressionless. But something in his eyes...

  “I could use some coffee,” he said with a shy smile, as if that were an admission of guilt.

  Papa beamed and gestured again, rather grandly, to where a somewhat disgruntled-looking Whit held open the door. “We already got some going,” her father said.

  The fire was going, too—the night was that chilly. Willa ushered the stranger to one of the two big rustic, Indian-blanketed chairs angled toward the fire, and Whit got chairs for himself and her, positioning them on either side of the larger ones.

  Willa took their guest’s curl-brimmed hat with its cavalry crease and hung it on a hook near the door. Whit, to his credit, was taking care of getting coffee for everyone. A rough-hewn table, fashioned decades ago by her father, sat between the two bigger chairs, providing a resting place for the china coffee cups.

  They sat washed in the orange flickering glow, with Whit seating himself next to the raw-boned dude as she nestled in near her father.

  Bluntly, Whit said, “Just who the hell are you, mister?”

  He turned toward Whit with the faintest smile. “Just who the hell are you?”

  “Whit Murphy,” he said, pounding his chest with the underside of a fist. “Bar-O foreman. See, that ain’t a hard question to answer at all. No more beatin’ around the bush. No more shilly-shallying.”

  The stranger’s smile broadened. “You’d be surprised how rarely I shilly-shally.”

  Whit seemed at the boiling point and her father must have sensed it, because he said, “Why keep your name to yourself, mister?”

  With no challenge in the words at all, the stranger said, “That’s kind of my business, isn’t it?”

  Papa drew a breath in, let it out slow. Flames reflected on the milky eyes. “I may not know your name, but I know who sent you. Raymond Parker, of Denver . . . isn’t that right?”

  The stranger seemed mildly confused. “Why should he?”

  Sitting forward, Willa said, “Mr. Parker and my father were partners years ago. They started this ranch together, and Mr. Parker sold his share to Papa and went on to make his own fortune in Colorado.”

  “Quite interesting, I’m sure,” the stranger said.

  Willa said, “Mr. Parker is who my father sent the wire to, seeking Wes Banion. To get rid of Harry Gauge.”

  Their guest said nothing, then nodded slowly. In the wavering glow of the fire, the sharp angles of his face were heightened, taking on a carved look.

  She pressed on: “We think you know Mr. Parker. That he passed my father’s offer along to you. And this means that you already have in your possession five thousand dollars of our money. Cullen money.”

  The stranger’s eyebrows lifted and another faint smile formed as they came down. “Well, now.”

  Her father clutched the arms of the chair as if he were holding on to a bucking bronc. “Mr. Banion . . . if that’s who you are . . . I can understand that you might like to keep a certain distance between yourself and those who hired you. Might serve as a protection to all concerned. After all, what we’re asking of you isn’t strictly . . . legal.”

  Willa, with a humorless smirk, said, “You mean murder, Papa?”

  Her father frowned, but his tone was conciliatory as he spoke to his daughter. “Perhaps our friend here will face the sheriff down in a fair fight. He’s demonstrated today that he has skills . . . including speed, I’m told . . . known to few shootists.”

  “However,” Willa said, addressing the stranger with an openly sarcastic smile, “should that approach not appeal to you, you can feel free to shoot Harry Gauge in the back.”

  “Daughter! Let me speak my piece to our guest.” Sitting
forward, lowering his voice, her father said, “Maybe you can pull this thing off, comin’ straight at it.... On the other hand, maybe you can’t. Honor aside, it might not be worth the risk.”

  The stranger, listening without expression, said, “Why is that?”

  Her father shrugged elaborately. In the fire’s reflection, every year of his life showed. “Harry Gauge has too damn many men.”

  The stranger’s upper lip twitched the tiniest smile. “He has six less now.”

  Her father nodded. “True, thanks to your efforts, and ours. But Gauge can afford to lose that many, and more. We can’t. And not even Caleb York could have gone up against this bunch alone.”

  The stranger sipped coffee, put the cup back on the table. “What kind of help do I get?”

  Her father didn’t answer that directly, saying, “Gauge is in the middle of a power play right now. You’ve been a distraction to him—a welcome one from our vantage point—but wanting you out of the way is just a small goal for a grasping man like this.”

  “And the big goal?”

  Her father gestured with both hands, palms up. “You’re sitting in the middle of it—the Bar-O. We’re the last and the biggest of the spreads that greedy, ambitious killer hasn’t swallowed up. He’s made offers and I’ve turned him down flat, but he’s cut into us bad, even if he hasn’t really made any major inroads. Soon he will, though. He’ll have to.”

  “Why?”

  Whit Murphy answered for his boss: “Because shipment season is comin’ up. We don’t have to drive cattle to Dodge City no more, not with the railroad so close. Ranches around here often sell to speculative buyers before makin’ the day-or-two drive.”

  “Times have changed,” the stranger granted. “But what pressure does that put on Gauge?”

  Her father was smiling now. “The sheriff extended himself badly to stock the range he grabbed, and his grass is bad and his water’s pretty much dried up. When those buyers come in, they won’t pay him enough for his beef to keep him goin’, no matter how much land he’s got.”

  The stranger shrugged. “Then why not wait him out?”

  Papa shook his head. “We can’t. Ain’t in a position to. He’s been scattering our stock into the hills, makin’ roundup on my reduced crew one hell of a hardship, if not downright impossible.”

  Whit put in, “And he’s been rustlin’ what he can get away with.”

  Papa said, “Comes down to this—we don’t get paid for what we don’t deliver.”

  “That’s a fact,” the stranger said with a nod.

  Her father’s sigh seemed to start down at his toes. “Except for the loyal handful I’ve got left, Gauge has run our men off. If we take any real losses in cattle, the Bar-O is finished. That leaves our ambitious sheriff a wide-open market. Then he’ll buy up our banknotes on the cheap, and force us out.”

  The stranger was frowning. “You have no money in reserve?”

  Not bothering to mask her bitterness, Willa said, “We did have. Now it’s being paid to you—ten thousand dollars.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. Sipped more coffee. Said, “That could have paid off a pile of banknotes.”

  Cullen shook his head morosely. “Not when you’re dead, my friend. Harry Gauge is responsible for the killings of seven of my people. Do I have to tell you that there’s nothing he won’t stop at?”

  “No,” the stranger said.

  Willa said, coldly, “So, in case you’re wondering? That money you took from us is blood money.”

  He met her hard gaze. “You sound like you have a bad taste in your mouth, Miss Cullen.”

  She met his. “Hired killers affect me that way.”

  “Willa!” her father said. “This man is our guest. And he’s one of us now.”

  With a bitter, little smile, she said, “I’m sure our new friend doesn’t mind my frankness. Do you, Mr. . . . Banion , is it?”

  “Strong-minded females affect me,” the stranger said, letting her second question pass. He had a last sip of coffee, and got to his feet. “You might be surprised how. . . . Good evening, Miss Cullen. Mr. Cullen. Mr. Murphy.”

  Willa, surprised by his suddenness, said, “You’re going?”

  He walked slowly for the door, spurs jangling. “Yes. Been an interestin’ visit. Thanks for the java. And the food for thought.”

  Her father was on his feet now as well. “Just a moment, please! . . . Sir, where are you going?”

  “Back to town. See if I can find a room. Been a busy day.”

  “And tomorrow . . . ?”

  “I’ll be around.” He was at the door. “I intend to satisfy my curiosity about a few things.”

  He took his hat off the hook, snugging it on as her father approached him, moving quickly through a world he knew well. “Wait! . . . Wait a minute.”

  The stranger turned to him. “Yes?”

  “So, are you Banion? Or are you . . . ? Which . . . which one are you?”

  “The other one,” the stranger said, then tipped his hat to Willa and went out.

  The remaining three exchanged exasperated expressions.

  Then she followed him out to their horses, her footsteps echoing off the plank porch. Glancing back at the house, she saw Whit stepping out, but she shook her head at him. Glumly, Whit stepped back in, closing the door.

  “You’re just . . . riding off?” she said, at the hitching post where he was untying.

  He wasn’t looking at her. “You need to make up your mind.”

  “About what?”

  Now his eyes were on her. “Do you or don’t you want me to help your father?”

  “Well, I . . . of course, I . . .”

  An edge came into his voice. “You come to town to find me, bring me out here, then you needle me like . . .” Then he grunted something, not quite a laugh.

  She turned her back to him, folded her arms; it was chilly, after all, and a bit of a shiver got into her words: “Maybe . . . maybe I don’t know what I want.”

  He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You want your father’s ranch preserved. I understand. Anybody would.” His hand left her shoulder. “But . . . you’re awful damn picky about how.”

  She shook her head, keeping her back to him. “Paying a hired killer . . . it makes us as bad as the people we’re trying to fight. Worse, because we know better. I want to hold on to this land. I want that more than anything. But doesn’t how we do it matter?”

  “Ask the Indians.”

  She whipped around to face him, eyes flashing, nostrils flaring. “You low-down, nasty . . . I ought to . . .”

  “Let me.”

  He put an arm around her waist and drew her to him and kissed her, long and a little rough, yet something about it struck her as very . . . sweet.

  Then he was up on his horse, tipping his hat to her again, before riding off.

  And she was standing there with her fingers on her lips, still not knowing what to think, thoughts and emotions fighting for control of her, neither winning.

  Just as the stranger was riding into town—heading for the livery stable and the stall that awaited the dappled gelding—he noticed a shopkeeper, claw hammer in hand, out after dark taking down the boards from his store windows.

  “For the sheriff keeping such a quiet town,” he said to the shopkeeper with a grin, “you folks have to go to a whole lot of trouble.”

  “Sure do, mister,” the shopkeeper said, a small, skinny man with a trim mustache. He gave up a defeated, little smile. “Every payday, it gets good and rowdy in this town.”

  The man was in a half-unbuttoned threadbare shirt tucked into his paint-stained pants, obviously his fix-’er-up clothes. He added another board to the pile flush against the outer wall of his establishment.

  The stranger asked, “Is it worth the trouble?”

  “Too much invested to move,” he said, pausing between yanking nails. He heaved a disgusted sigh. “Once a month, same darn thing—payday and hooraw. Harry Gauge waits till the
cowboys’ money is gone, and the town’s half-wrecked, before quieting it down again.”

  A churn of wheels, rattle of reins, and clopping of hooves announced a wagon rolling into town. An older rancher at the reins, it pulled up alongside where the shopkeeper was at work and just behind the mounted stranger. Something in the open back of his wagon was covered with a tarp—from the shape, might be a body.

  The rancher said, “Hey, Warren—remind me where the doc’s office is, would you?”

  The shopkeeper shook his head. “Why bother, Burl? He’s out with the Haywood baby, or least he was.”

  The rancher sighed and shrugged. He had a full, well-trimmed gray beard and had seen more in his time than most had forgot. “Well, hell . . . not that Doc Miller could’ve done this feller any good, anyways.”

  The shopkeeper came closer, tapping his palm lightly with the hammerhead. “Who you got back there?”

  “Old Swenson. Dead as they come.”

  “Shame! What the hell happened?”

  The rancher shrugged again. “Found him out near the relay station. Looks like he was drunk. Anyways, smells like he was drunk. Fell off his horse, maybe. Hit his head on a rock, likely.”

  The stranger was climbing down off his horse. “You mind if I take a look?”

  The rancher frowned. “Don’t know as it’s your business, mister.”

  “Do you know that it isn’t?”

  The rancher thought about that, and—perhaps realizing that this was the man who’d shot down four of Harry Gauge’s roughneck deputies today—said, “Have at, mister.”

  “Thanks.”

  The stranger got up into the wagon and flipped back the tarp. He knelt near the body. Warren, the shopkeeper, folded his fingers over the far-side edge of the wagon and peeked in, like a kid over a fence.

  The corpse was on its belly, slack face to one side, mouth open as if seeking the air it could no longer inhale ; the wound was well-exposed. This was a man in his fifties or older, weathered and wrinkled and gray. And out of his misery.

  The stranger said, “If it was a rock, sure had a funny damn shape to it.”