The Legend of Caleb York

by Mickey Spillane

  The rancher, still seated on the buckboard, glanced back and said, with just a hint of impatience, “How’s that?”

  “Looks more like a gun butt.”

  The rancher made a dismissive face. “Naw! Who’d want to kill Old Swenson? Ever since he sold out the Running C to the sheriff, he’s been a real drunkard. Bigger even than ol’ Tulley.”

  “That so?”

  “Sure as hell is. Once he fell in the Purgatory and nearly drowned hisself.” He spit chaw. “Nice old feller, though.”

  Scratching his head, Warren said, “Well, he did have some money, Burl—maybe not a lot, ’cause he wound up sellin’ out cheap to Harry Gauge, they say. But a grubstake, anyway. Somebody mighta pistol-whipped and robbed him.”

  “Possible,” the rancher said, clearly not caring. “People been killed for fifty cents. Less.”

  The stranger asked, “What about his horse? The one you think might have thrown him?”

  Rancher Burl gestured vaguely. “I left it tied up out at the relay station. I didn’t check his saddlebags for money or nothin’. I’ll leave that to the sheriff. Mind coverin’ him up again?”

  The stranger did so, hopped down.

  The rancher said, “With the doc away, I’ll go wake up the undertaker. Maybe stop and see if anybody’s in at the sheriff’s office, first. Damn, it’s a pain in the butt bein’ a Good Samaritan like this. . . .”

  The wagon rolled off, and the shopkeeper shrugged. He and his hammer went back to work unboarding his windows.

  The stranger stood in the street and watched the wagon go.

  The storekeeper, noticing the dude’s presence, asked over his shoulder, “Something on your mind, mister?”

  “Just thinking that the sheriff might be easier to convince than I was,” he said, “that Old Swenson fell off his horse.”

  Then he nodded good night to the shopkeeper and got back on the black-maned gelding and rode down to the livery stable.

  Ten minutes later, he walked into the hotel, sweeping off his hat. The bell over the door woke the desk clerk, a weak-chinned character with pince-nez and scant hair, in a brown-and-gold vest with a white shirt and black bow tie. He’d been slumped, sleeping on an elbow over a copy of Beadle’s Dime Library—The Legend of Caleb York by Ned Buntline.

  The stranger chuckled at the sight of the cheap publication, and was amused as well by the startled blinking look the wakened clerk gave him. This was one of the faces from the crowd who’d gathered earlier—twice, actually. This morning after the shooting in front of the sheriff’s office, and tonight after the bushwhackers had been dealt with.

  “Pretty lively out there last night,” the stranger said. “Like that every payday, I hear.”

  “Afraid so, mister. Couldn’t have accommodated you then, but I’m pleased to say I’m able to now.”

  “Well, that’s fine. Something on the Main Street side?”

  “Certainly.” The clerk reached for his register, opened it, and turned the book around for his customer. “It was, uh, a little lively out there today as well.”

  “Could call it that.” He looked up from the register. “Does the sheriff check this book on a regular basis?”

  “Yes, sir. He or one of his deputies. Likes to keep track of people staying in town.”

  The stranger cocked his head. “When does he do that? Check the register, I mean.”

  “Oh, sometime in the evening.”

  “Has the sheriff or any deputy of his done so yet tonight ?”

  The clerk shook his head. “No, sir. But somebody should be around, oh, most any time now. Why?”

  “No reason. Just curious by nature.” The stranger grinned at the clerk, leaned an elbow on the register. “Now, just for fun—what name do you suppose might shake our sheriff up the most?”

  The clerk’s eyebrows climbed his endless forehead. “Well, uh . . . of course, we’d prefer your real name, sir. Not that we stand on ceremony.”

  “No, really, be a sport—what name might spook him some?”

  The clerk tugged at his collar. “Well, uh . . . I assume you’ve heard the, uh, talk around town . . . speculation that, uh, you are, uh . . . Mr. Wesley Banion. If you, uh, are Mr. Wesley Banion.”

  “And that name would sit the sheriff up straight, you think?”

  “Well might,” the clerk said with a sickly smile. Then he nodded at his dime novel. “But, of course, what would really get his attention . . . if I might say so, sir . . . is that.”

  The Legend of Caleb York.

  “Of course,” the clerk said, with a shrug, “Caleb York is dead.”

  The stranger chuckled again, reached for the pen. “Why don’t we do what heretofore only the Almighty has managed?”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Bring the dead back to life.”

  And he signed the register, Caleb York.

  The clerk, somewhat confused and not yet seeing what the guest had written, handed across a room key. “Upper floor, sir. Top of the stairs, it’s the last door on your left.”

  The stranger nodded at the clerk, catching a glimpse of the man reading the register, eyes popping as he covered his mouth with a nervous hand.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lola entered the hotel and was headed for the stairs to the second floor, where she kept a room, when she noticed the stranger leaving the check-in desk, about to start up himself. He saw her, too, smiled, took off his hat, and waited for her.

  “Well, my silent stranger,” she said.

  He leaned against the banister post. “Is that what I am?”

  “I wouldn’t call you talkative. Finally getting a roof over your head, I see.”

  “Finally.”

  He gestured in an after-you manner and she went up, putting a little extra sway into it. She was still in her elaborate, low-cut dance-hall gown—the walk to the hotel from the Victory was a short one, so she didn’t bother changing before heading back.

  Halfway up, she said, with an over-the-shoulder glance at him, “I’m a little surprised to see you back in town so soon.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Oh, I suppose because Willa Cullen seems to hold a peculiar . . . fascination . . . for a certain kind of man.”

  At the top of the stairs, he let his eyes drop briefly down to her décolletage and back again. “And you don’t?”

  She gave him a coquettish look that didn’t pretend to be anything but joshing. “It would be immodest of me to say.”

  “Walk you to your room?”

  “Please.”

  She led the way, stopping at room 6.

  “Believe I’m next door,” he said, gesturing. “In number five.”

  She smiled and it was anything but coquettish. “Well, perhaps that will prove convenient. For example, should you need a cup of sugar.”

  He gave her another grin. “Very neighborly of you.”

  The man didn’t seem to embarrass easily. She liked that.

  She laid a lace-gloved hand on his cheek. “We might start with a nightcap. I have a bottle in my room? Bourbon. Straight from New Orleans.”

  “Mighty tempting. Another time?”

  “Another time.”

  “Good night . . . ma’am.”

  She watched him walk down to his nearby door, use his key, pause to smile and nod at her, then go in.

  For a moment, she just stood there, thinking, Now this is a man.

  Despite the dudish clothes on the one hand and his frightening abilities with a gun on the other, something decent managed to come through.

  But not so decent that they hadn’t been able to enjoy an afternoon together....

  She went into her room, which was no bigger or nicer than any other in the hotel, down to the same drab wallpaper. But she had dressed the space up with a few nice pieces of Victorian furniture brought here from Denver—hand-carved mirrored maple dresser with a floral-pattern toilet set, baroque walnut plush-upholstered armchair, a carved rosewood bed, and a few o
ther things. She lived here, after all, and had a right to be comfortable.

  If Gauge came through for her as promised, a fancy two-story Victorian house, furnished like this throughout, on its own nice piece of property, would be hers one day soon. Or she should say, theirs. These were nice-enough quarters for a dance-hall queen.

  But the wife of a cattle baron would have it so very much better. . . .

  A sharp knock came at the door. She smiled proudly at herself in the mirror—the stranger had changed his mind! He’d gone to his lonely room and stared at the wall, driven mad by thoughts of the delights awaiting him on the other side. She laughed at herself, and him.

  She was in her corset and silk stockings now, but found that perfectly acceptable apparel in which to greet him, to encourage her new friend to have that nightcap after all, and perhaps . . . ?

  She opened the door just a crack, but the face there did not belong to the stranger or Harry Gauge, either.

  “Hi, Lola.”

  Vint Rhomer pushed through, shutting the door behind him in a near slam. The red-haired, red-bearded deputy—in his usual gray shirt with sleeve garters, buckskin vest, dirty denims, and tied-down .44—reeked of liquor. Reeked, period.

  She glared at him. “Vint! What the hell are you doing here?”

  He gave her a hooded-eyed grin, teeth like a rabbit’s poking through the red brush. “Just thought I’d stop by for a friendly little visit.”

  Her hands went to her hips. She didn’t give a damn that he was seeing her like this; in her profession, modesty was not an issue.

  With chin high, she said, “There are plenty of girls over at the Victory. Slow night like this, you’ll have your pick. Go visit one of them.”

  He came over, stood close to her, arrogance and stupidity rising off him like two more foul smells. “Maybe I’d rather visit you, honey.”

  She gave him a defiant smile, hands still on her hips. “You’re takin’ one hell of a risk . . . ‘honey.’ What if Harry Gauge came walking through that door?”

  He shook his head. Tobacco was in there with all the other odors. “Harry’s busy. Got called away on a matter. He’s got way more to worry about than me makin’ time with his . . . whatever it is you are to him.”

  She bared her teeth. “Lay one finger on me and I’ll tell him you ravaged me.”

  The dark blue eyes narrowed and his upper lip curled back in its red nest. “You really think he’d give a damn?”

  Her chin crinkled in anger, nostrils and eyes flaring like a rearing mare. “What the hell do you think you’re talking about, Rhomer?”

  He chuckled and went over and sat in the fancy chair. Crossed his legs.

  Casual, he said, “You really shot yourself in the foot, Lola, when you brought Harry into the picture. Oh, I know the whole story. How this town was gonna run you and your tramps out when you sent for Harry and his big gun. Paid his damn stage fare, then just handed him a half-interest in the Victory.”

  She stood with her arms folded now, looking down at the seated intruder, but keeping a distance. “This is fascinating, hearing my life story told by an idiot.”

  “You made a bad partnership, honey. Harry Gauge wants more from a woman than you could ever give him.”

  Her chin came up again. “Harry’s got everything he ever wanted—the land, the cattle, the town . . . and he’s got me.”

  Rhomer’s shrug was slow and his sneering expression nasty. “Yeah, only he don’t want you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Dead right, baby. What he wants is sweet, little Willa Cullen.”

  She scowled. “You’re as crazy as you are stupid, Rhomer. All he wants is her ranch.”

  His eyes went huge. “And you call me stupid! She goes with the damn ranch. She is the damn ranch! You really think when Harry Gauge sets himself up as king of this part of the country, he’s gonna do it with a shopworn soiled dove like you at his side?”

  She was trembling now, with rage, and . . . something else. Fear? Not of Rhomer, but that . . . that he might be right . . . ?

  She pointed at the door. “Get out! Get out of here now.”

  Rhomer got to his feet, in no hurry. He came toward her in an easy lope. “Don’t cry, honey. No need to cry. Vint here still thinks you’re sweet. Hell, I don’t mind takin’ Harry’s sloppy seconds. He can have that sage hen Cullen gal.”

  He undid his gun belt and tossed it on the chair he’d vacated near the window on the street. As he turned back to her, grinning horribly, she was right there to slap him, hard, and it rang out like a gunshot.

  Rhomer grunted and returned the slap, but twice as hard, and she cried out. Then he slapped her again, even harder, and started in clawing at her, trying to rip off what little she wore, but dealing with a corset was beyond his intelligence and she pummeled his chest with hard, tiny fists and bit him on the ear, hard, tearing at his flesh, spitting out a bloody lobe.

  He screamed and let go of her, scarlet trailing down one cheek, and yelled, “You witch!”

  He pushed her onto the bed and was coming at her with grimacing hatred and his right fist was high when the door splintered open and someone came in fast.

  The stranger.

  Bareheaded, no sidearm, he grabbed Rhomer from behind, by the shoulders, and flung him across into the dresser, where the deputy hit hard, the mirror shaking, drawers rattling, pitcher in its basin careening.

  She sat up on the bed, breathing hard, her mouth bleeding—the stranger must have heard the struggle! And came to help his neighbor out.

  Rhomer’s right hand went to his side—forgetting for a moment that his gun in its belt was over on that chair—and then grabbed the pitcher from the dresser top and hurled it at the stranger, who ducked, and so did she, as it flew into the wall behind her and crashed into chunky fragments.

  The deputy raised his fists and with a sneering smile came slowly toward the man who’d interrupted his fun.

  “About time,” Rhomer said, “somebody taught you to mind your own damn business.”

  The stranger, his own balled hands at the ready, was smiling, but his eyes weren’t. “Please try.”

  In the cramped space of the hotel room, there was little for the two men to do but stand there and slug it out, though Rhomer landed few blows. The stranger kept rocking him back, taking only a handful of hits on his arms and his body, just glancing blows.

  Then Rhomer brought around a looping right hand that could have done real damage, but the other man ducked it and brought up a right hand that caught the deputy on the chin, sending him, already bleeding from his ragged ear, stumbling back.

  Not even breathing hard, the stranger said, “Maybe it’s time I taught you not to burden a lady with unwanted attentions.”

  Lola felt tears come. The physical punishment Rhomer had dealt out to her hadn’t made her cry. She was used to that kind of thing, much as she hated it. But her unlikely savior’s oddly formal defense of her . . . her virtue . . . had sent tears streaming.

  The stranger was delivering a flurry of punches to Rhomer’s body, his chest, his belly, his sides, and the deputy seemed to be staying on his feet only by the force of those blows, bloody spittle flying.

  Then in one last desperate move, Rhomer shoved the stranger away, and scrambled after the gun belt on the chair near the window. As the deputy bent over for it, the stranger came up behind him and kicked him in the backside and through the glass shatteringly, shards flying, wooden pane frames cracking.

  From below came a loud whump.

  Lola rushed to her rescuer’s side as they both looked out the window.

  Rhomer was plastered down there on the hotel’s wooden awning, on his belly, breathing hard, but out.

  “Little boy’s had a busy day.” The stranger turned to her, touched her face gently near where her mouth bled. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. Something shaky in her voice, she said, “You really think saving my virtue was worth the risk?”

 
He grinned. The only blood on him was Rhomer’s. “Anytime. And I’m not about to stand by and see a woman get manhandled.”

  “But you couldn’t see it.”

  He shrugged, nodding toward the wall they shared. “I could hear it. Anyway, how’s a man to get any sleep with all that racket?”

  “You joke.” She nodded toward the window. “Rhomer will kill you for sure now.”

  “Well, he’ll try. Are you going to the sheriff about this? That deputy isn’t about to.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll find Rhomer tomorrow, give him his gun, and tell him I’ll keep my mouth shut if he does the same.”

  He jerked a thumb at the shattered window. “Why not let those two bums shoot it out?”

  “I have my reasons. My secrets.”

  He gave her half a grin this time. “Don’t we all? You better have that desk clerk give you another room for tonight.”

  She put a hand in his hair, then brought it back. “We could always share yours.”

  “Lovely thought. But this little man has had a busy day, too.”

  He broke away from her to take another glance out the window, and she came along. Rhomer was still down on the awning, sleeping off his drunk and his beating. A plump, little man on a horse came riding along Main Street, in no hurry, a Gladstone bag tucked on the saddle before him.

  “Isn’t that Doc Miller?” he asked her.

  “That’s him. Why? You want to get Rhomer a doctor?”

  “Not hardly.”

  Then he kissed her on the forehead and left her there.

  In the moonlight, the expanse of range looked like the aftermath of a terrible battle, the kind where there are few if any survivors, corpses strewn everywhere. Only this was a war where the casualties were cattle.

  Harry Gauge and his grizzled foreman Gil Willart stood over one such victim, whose exposed fleshy underside bore telltale blisters.

  “Cowpox, all right,” Gauge said with a sigh and a shake of the head. His hat was in his hand as if out of respect for the dead steer.

  Willart shot a stream of tobacco sideways into the night. “What now, boss?”

  The moon was painting the grotesque landscape an unreal off-white. It was cool out, almost cold, and a breeze made a hoarse, spooky whisper.