The Big Showdown

by Mickey Spillane

  “Tulley, how are you with a handgun?”

  “Slow as molasses, Sheriff, but I know which end to point. Scattergun is more to my temperament.”

  York waved a vague hand. “There are three in the gun rack. Pick any one you like.”

  Tulley frowned in confusion. “Right generous, even for Caleb York. But it ain’t my birthday. Truth be told, I don’t even know when my birthday is.”

  York shrugged. “Christmas is just a few months off. Call it an early present. Here’s another. . . .”

  He opened a desk drawer and fished around and came back with a badge that said DEPUTY. Like a bet he was making, he shoved it across the desk at the old boy, whose eyes widened. Tulley reached for it, but his fingers merely hovered, as if the badge were a hot stove.

  “Merry Christmas, Tulley. Or would you rather keep shoveling horse manure over at the livery?”

  “Oh, I had my fill of that, Sheriff. Even only workin’ them half days.”

  Those added up to thirty hours a week.

  “You’re making, what, Tulley? Three dollars a week?”

  “In that there neighborhood.”

  “I’ll tell the Citizens Committee I require a deputy and ask for forty a month. How does that neighborhood sound?”

  Tulley was beaming. “Like I died and went to heaven. Only I don’t suppose you need a scattergun up there.” He reached for the badge and pinned it on the pink of his BVD top.

  As he was doing that, though, his expression dropped.

  “Are you sure about this, Sheriff? You know half of this town sees me as a joke, and the other don’t see me a’tall.”

  “With that badge, Tulley—assuming you stay on the wagon—they’ll respect you, all right.”

  “What if . . . what if they don’t?”

  “That’s what the scattergun is for.”

  York reached in his pocket and dug out a quarter eagle, then tossed it on the desk, where it rang and shuddered before settling down.

  “Get yourself a real shirt or two, Tulley, over at the mercantile. You’ll get took more serious than in that underwear top.”

  Tulley grinned and snatched up the coin. For a reformed desert rat, he had a surprising number of teeth. “When do I start?”

  “Right now.”

  York unlocked his right-hand bottom drawer and got out his gun belt. He stood and buckled it on, positioning the .44 butt at pants pocket level, then cinched the holster tie.

  “You know that expression, Tulley—‘hold down the fort’? Well, this is the fort. Hold it down till I get back.”

  “Will do,” Tulley said, already on his feet and over at the weapons rack, selecting a shotgun.

  At the door, York paused to look back and say, “Get some coffee going and unlock a cell door. Key ring’s on the wall, there.”

  “We takin’ on some new lodgers?”

  “Might.”

  The night had grown cooler, and the street was empty, everybody home now after the gathering at the Grange. The only exceptions were the Victory, spilling its light and gaiety into the street some ways down, and of course the Cantina de Toro Rojo, over at the dead end of the ragtag collection of a dozen or so low-slung adobe-brick buildings opposite the sheriff’s office and jail.

  During the day, the modest barrio was that peculiar south-of-the-border mix of sleepy and lively, people in loose clothing seeming in no hurry but always caught up in some activity, chickens wandering the dusty space between the facing adobes, dogs barking and scrounging. At night, the animals were sleeping, the fowls penned up, the dogs finding doorways to curl up in, the only human inhabitant in sight a drowsy old man skirting a broken-down cart to get to an outhouse.

  Down at the end of this shabby lane of yellow hovels was a two-story exception, grand by way of comparison, windows glowing yellow on the first floor, flickering candlelight in some second-floor windows. Adobe, like its neighbors, but more sturdy-looking, its architecture not so haphazard, the structure might have been a castle with peasants at its feet, or the home of the only rich man in town, or perhaps a military fortress.

  This was a fortress, all right, but a fortress of sin, with big faded-red lettering above an arched doorless door saying CANTINA DE TORO ROJO. Right now the town gunsmith, in the same suit he wore to church, was coming out beneath those weather-worn letters; he was on the arm of a slender señorita with enough paint on her almost-pretty face to make her look older than she was. Old as fourteen, maybe.

  The pair went up an exposed wooden staircase along the right side of the building, to the second floor—there was no access from the restaurant and bar below. Laughter and talk leached out the place, accompanied by guitar. Half-a-dozen horses stood at the leather-glazed hitch rail, tails twitching away flies. York checked for a Morgan horse with a BC brand.

  Nope.

  He entered the cantina, boots crunching the straw on the floor. The joint was doing a pretty fair weeknight business. The smell of refried beans hung heavy, but nobody was eating. This time of evening, the Red Bull was all about drinking and maybe going outside and upstairs with a señorita. A little guy in a sombrero too big for him sat in a corner smoking an ill-made cigarette as he played an approximation of flamenco guitar on a cheap-looking instrument.

  The bartender—who was also the owner—was fat and sweaty, his round head striped with thinning black hair, his eyes hooded, his mustache droopy, his white shirt damp, his black string tie limp, his unhappiness about this new arrival unmistakable; he was pouring somebody, maybe himself, a shot of tequila.

  The walls had been painted a redundant yellow a long time ago, with touches of bright colors that had faded to pastels. One wall had a surprisingly well-done mural of a bullfight, also faded. No stools at the bar, just a scattering of mismatched tables and chairs, as if assembled from furnishings that fell off wagon trains rolling through.

  A few areas were partitioned off with latticework, and a handful of gringo men from town were mixed in with Mexican cowboys who worked spreads in the area, including the Cullen ranch—such vaqueros were among the best hands in the territory.

  Pruitt and Hoake, the cowboys with the stagecoach-robbery pedigree, were playing cards with two of the Mexican ranch hands. Stud poker. Coins and a few bills littered the table. Two señoritas in their twenties, with eyes in their forties, displayed a lot of dark hair, white teeth, and bosoms overflowing peasant blouses, their full black skirts with petticoats circled with occasional stripes of color—red, green, yellow, white.

  The Mexicans were real cowboys, on the small side, which was the standard, since ranchers didn’t like putting a strain on their horses. Tow-haired Pruitt and especially dark-haired Hoake were wrong for the job, Pruitt tall and sturdy, Hoake just shy of fat.

  Both men wore denims, knotted neck kerchiefs and work shirts, as if that would fool anybody. The Colt .45s in their oiled leather holsters, tie-downs loose, told a different story. The tall half of the pair had a goatee, while the almost fat one’s pie-pan face made a home for a mustache as droopy and black as the bartender’s.

  York went to the bar where that shot of tequila was waiting for somebody to drink it. So he did. The stuff went down with a nice burn, but tasted like it came into the world this afternoon, all cactus and no wood.

  “Sheriff,” the bartender said softly, “you know we like be your good neighbor.”

  “And your idea of a good neighbor,” York said, “is me not dropping by?”

  “You don’t boost my patrons’ thirst.”

  “Sure I do, Cesar. When I leave.”

  “So please do.” A request, not a threat.

  York gave the barest head nod toward the poker table. “Those fellas over there. The gringos, the tall, the squat? How drunk are they?”

  “Not very. They take in plenty, but they do it slow. Steady. Since before sundown. They been upstairs once already. Now, I think they just try and . . .”

  “Regroup their troops?”

  He shrugged wide shoulders.
“They been here before. They know to go upstairs, early. Pretty soon, they go upstairs maybe with a different girl, this time usually stay the night. But, uh, Sheriff, they cause no trouble.”

  “See any other gringo with them?”

  “Did not notice.”

  “A man with a scar through his mouth? Scar standing out white against a beard? Not a big man. Slim but looks like he can take care of himself?”

  “No bell rings.”

  “Name of Bill Johnson.”

  “That’s a John Smith, Juan Garcia name.”

  “It sure is. Cesar, you wouldn’t be forgetting ’cause you don’t want any trouble here?”

  “Not so, Sheriff. I am a good neighbor.”

  “Or maybe you got paid to forget?”

  Cesar frowned and said, “No, señor. I don’t need that kind of money. I make plenty here in my honest business.”

  “Then you don’t want to get closed down.”

  “I do not, Sheriff.” Cesar poured another tequila, but York ignored it. “There was a Bill Johnson, I think, last year. Who would come in, time to time.”

  “Is that right? With a scarred lip?”

  “I think his lip, it is scarred. Now that I think on it.”

  “Why don’t you drink some of that tequila, Cesar, and think on it some more.”

  Cesar did.

  York waited.

  Then very quietly, the bartender said, “I have not seen him tonight. Bill Johnson. I speak truth.”

  “Okay.”

  Glancing at the poker table, seeing no eyes on him, Cesar said quietly, “But he always like one of my girls. Gabriella.”

  “She working tonight?”

  “Sí.”

  “Your girls, do they use any available room, or do they have rooms of their own?”

  “Of their own, señor.” He glanced at the ceiling. “Gabriella? First door on your left.”

  “Locks on the doors?”

  Cesar smiled slyly. “Sheriff, if you wish to know more about such rooms, there are girls here, they be glad to give you lessons. No charge.”

  York grinned. “That good a neighbor I don’t need you to be, Cesar. Just tell me if that door is going to be locked.”

  A shrug, a shake of the big head. “There are no locks in this part of town, señor. We are poor but honest people.”

  Cesar and his wife didn’t live in the barrio. They had a former hacienda outside town a few miles. But York thought pointing this out might be unkind.

  “Appreciate your help, Cesar. Now don’t get jumpy, amigo. But I’m going over to say hello to those gringos. Then make a show of leaving.”

  Cesar nodded and went off to find a glass to polish. Or maybe just to wipe dry, since York had never seen him wash any.

  York crossed the straw-covered floor and stood near the small table where the latest round of stud was going.

  Fat Hoake looked up over his greasy cards and asked, “You want dealt in, Sheriff? It’s a small-stakes game. But we play it like it matters.”

  The two señoritas were looking York up and down the way some men did good-looking women.

  York said, “Just need a friendly word with you, Mr. Hoake. You, too, Mr. Pruitt.”

  Looking at his cards, sitting near where York stood, Pruitt—a moist cigarette hanging so low his goatee might have caught fire—said, “Can’t this wait, Sheriff? We got a game here.”

  “Please. Finish the hand.”

  They did.

  “You boys know a Bill Johnson?”

  Hoake’s smiling words made his droopy mustache dance. “I think I know two, no three, Bill Johnsons, Sheriff. Maybe you can narrow it down some.”

  While Hoake was looking right at York, Pruitt gazed straight ahead, sullen as hell.

  York said, “You’d know this Johnson by the scar through his mouth.”

  Hoake pretended to think. Pruitt didn’t bother.

  “You’d also know him because, like you fellas, he was one of Harry Gauge’s men. Oh, not cowboys like you two. More a . . . special deputy.”

  Hoake’s eyebrows went up; they looked like they were pasted on the flat, round face. “Oh. That Bill Johnson. What about him?”

  York didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked the tall outlaw, “How about you, Mr. Pruitt? You acquainted with this particular Bill Johnson?”

  Now Pruitt turned to look up at York. His eyes were small and a light brown, like tobacco juice with plenty of spit in it. “We met. Ain’t seen him in some time. Why?”

  “You boys must not get around. I thought everybody in the territory knew by now that Johnson’s wanted for robbing the First Bank of Trinidad. Got away with a hefty sum.”

  “Do tell,” Pruitt said, those tiny eyes getting even tinier as they disappeared into slits.

  “There’s a reward,” York said, “should you run into him. Or should it occur to you where I might find him.”

  One of the Mexican cowhands at the table asked, “How much reward, Sheriff?”

  “Ten percent of whatever’s recovered.”

  Hoake said, “Well, what if somebody hauls Bill Johnson in, but nothing’s recovered?”

  York fanned a big smile around the table. “I’m sure you would have the gratitude of your fellow good citizens. Maybe get a piece of paper from the mayor to hang on the bunkhouse wall.”

  Pruitt and Hoake smirked at each other.

  York said, “I’ll be in my office first thing tomorrow morning, gents, should something come to you. After I get a good night’s sleep, anyway.”

  He summoned a yawn and stretched some.

  “Enjoy your game, fellas.”

  He nodded to them, tipped his hat to the señoritas, who gave him looks about as subtle as a mule kick in the tail, then sauntered out. He walked back through the sleeping barrio and across to the office/jail and went inside.

  Tulley, seated at the little table by the stove and wall of wanted posters, swung the scattergun toward him, then backed it right off.

  The deputy said, “I don’t see no customers.”

  “I’m just making a show of it,” York said, and he cracked the door and peered across the street. The cantina was too far away to tell whether one or both of the gunhands had followed him to the door to watch him go. Had he looked back, he’d have tipped his hand.

  But he felt sure they had. One of them, at least.

  Tulley watched in confusion as York removed his spurs and tossed them on the desk with a jangle.

  “You’re gettin’ ready for bed or somethin’?”

  “In a way,” York said. He grunted a laugh. “Spurs are fine on horseback, Tulley, but they have a bad habit of announcing you, on foot.”

  He waited five minutes before heading back. This time not even a dog barked and nobody was heading to the outhouse. Laughter and talk and guitar again welcomed his approach, without yet noting his arrival. The same horses were hitched outside the Red Bull.

  York walked around to the side of the building where that exterior staircase took you closer to heaven and right next to earthly delights. Playing a hunch, he moved around back and found a lone horse hitched to a post.

  A Morgan horse, a bay, with a BC brand on its right rump.

  York smiled to himself and withdrew his .44.

  He went over and glanced around front to see if any patron happened at that moment to be heading outside with a señorita in tow (or the other way around), and saw no one. He considered peeking in a front window to check on the card game, or at least establish the continued presence of Pruitt and Hoake, but decided against it.

  Why risk being seen?

  He started up the rough-wood stairway, taking each step slow and careful, unable to do so silently but not making a racket, anyway. He paused at the landing, helped himself to several slow breaths, in and out, in and out, then stood there taking in the stars for a mite, then went in taking only the star on his chest with him.

  The hallway was narrow. Three staggered doors on either side, more y
ellow pueblo walls, a wooden floor that had been there forever and was still waiting to be swept.

  “First door on your left,” Cesar had said.

  Did he trust Cesar?

  Did he have any choice?

  He turned the knob and began to push through, but—though the door, as promised, had no lock—a chair was propped under its knob. York had to back up and shoulder through, aware that he’d been announced far louder than his spurs might have, and he dove in, past the chair he’d dislodged as bullets blasted over him, three shots separated only by the click of cocking, cutting through the shrill immediate female scream that filled the room like a train whistle.

  York—down on the filthy floor next to an ancient iron bed, knowing a woman was in the room with Johnson and not wanting to fire blindly—aimed up and then, leaning over him, there the man was, scar through his bearded face and his lips, bare and hairy and sinewy, eyes big, teeth bared, his Colt .45 swinging down at the man on the floor.

  But the man on the floor fired just once, and the bullet went in right under the scarred gunman’s nose, adding a ragged red oversized nostril just below and between the other two, and the .44 slug traveled at an angle that cut its passage through the naked man’s head and sprayed the yellow ceiling scarlet with dripping dabs of green and gray. The Colt clunked to the floor, released by unfeeling fingers, and the now blank-eyed bank robber fell back onto the bed, out of York’s sight.

  She was still screaming, the live naked woman under the sheet with the dead naked man, looking at her bed mate but not wanting to, frozen but wishing she could move, as if a hole to hell had opened up before her and something in her wanted to dive in even as the rest of her wanted to flee.

  This was Gabriella, and as close to Gabriel as Bill Johnson would ever get. She was young, though had just grown much older, a pretty thing with lots of bosom and a general plumpness that would have been more pleasing not flecked with red.

  Already on his feet, York went to a second chair, which with a small table with basin represented the only other furnishings in the small room, and plucked a thin pink-and-white floral robe. His gun in one hand, he took the flimsy garment and held it out to her.