The Big Showdown

by Mickey Spillane

  Zachary’s eyebrows rose. “Certainly. Anything special you wish to discuss?”

  “A couple things I’d like to go over.”

  And went down. “Certainly. An hour and a half should be fine.”

  Zachary tipped his black flat-brimmed Stetson and made briskly for Harris Mercantile.

  York went into the hotel lobby and over to the check-in desk to arrange for his hot bath.

  In clean clothes, shaved, and fully washed—though he’d had a bath just three days before—York felt almost human again. As he got dressed in his hotel room, he realized he was getting into the dudish apparel—his usual black, but with gray trim on cuffs and pearl buttons down the front—that had caused some to underestimate him when he first rode into town, a stranger.

  He cleaned off his curl-brimmed hat as best he could, though it might be time for a new one, and cleaned the mud from his hand-tooled boots, the only pair he owned. The .44 would need cleaning and oiling, but for now he just wiped it off with the towel with which he’d dried himself, and used a slightly damp cloth to clean the mud from his gun belt, knowing it deserved (and would receive) better.

  By the time he was heading up the boardwalk to the jailhouse, trading nods and smiles with townsfolk (ladies giggling, men tipping hats), York found Main Street looking close to dry and wholly absent of dead Rhomers or parts thereof. The doctor and undertaker, and for that matter his deputy, had done their part.

  Zachary Gauge wouldn’t likely show up for another fifteen minutes yet, which was fine because York had a few things he wanted to do first. He tossed the telegram, facedown, on his desk, grabbed the big key ring off the wall, and strolled through the doorless doorway into the cell block.

  In the first cell, Tulley was sleeping again, on his back on the cot, for once not snoring. Momentarily, York suspected his deputy had celebrated with a bottle, but it appeared the man was just plumb exhausted. The old boy had had a busy morning, at that.

  York found Rita pacing in her oversized cell. Earlier, she’d been barefoot, but now she was in her own hand-tooled boots, her dark hair down and brushing her shoulders. Without the face paint, she looked young. She also looked impatient.

  “Congratulations on not being dead,” she said, pausing in her pacing, not looking happy about it at all. “Killed five more men, did you? How many is that?”

  “Haven’t done the ciphering yet. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Very funny. How about letting me out now?”

  “Actually, I am letting you out.”

  “About time!”

  “And moving you down to a different cell.”

  “What?”

  “I want you closer to the office, but not in that first cell, where you can be seen from out there.”

  She was frowning at him. “Are you serious, Sheriff?”

  “Dead serious about keeping you alive.”

  He unlocked the cell.

  “Bring your bag,” he said.

  She huffed an exasperated sigh, but complied. When he’d locked her into cell number two, she asked, “What is this about?”

  “There’s a conversation I want you to hear. You just keep mum, all right? I’ll bring you into it if I feel it’s necessary.”

  She was frowning again. “Conversation with whom?”

  He grinned at her. “That would ruin it.”

  Then he went into cell number one and kicked Tulley’s cot, hard. The former desert rat reacted as if woken by an earthquake.

  “Up and at ’em, boy,” York said.

  Tulley blinked his eyes into focus. “What’s left to do today?”

  “I have a guest coming. I want you on the porch with that loaded scattergun handy.”

  “In case your guest gets inhospitable?”

  “No, in case you spot a rabbit or a squirrel.”

  The deputy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re joshin’, right? That’s you bein’ dry, ain’t it, Sheriff?”

  “After that storm, it’s nice bein’ dry, don’t you think?” He pointed in the direction of the porch. “Just sit out there and don’t let anybody or anything interrupt me. If you hear something happen in the office—”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll know. It’s guard duty, Tulley. Beats night patrol, don’t you think?”

  “Shore does.”

  So Tulley got positioned on the porch with the scattergun across his lap, and York stood out there with him, looking at sunshine improving the day, hands on hips, waiting for his guest.

  Five minutes or so later, Zachary stepped up onto the porch and gave Tulley a nod and York a smile and a nod. “Apologies if I’m late.”

  York waved it off. “I don’t have a timepiece, anyway. Tell me you’re early and I’ll believe you.”

  The two men went into the office, the sheriff closing the door.

  York got behind his desk and sat in his chair, getting comfortable, leaning back, his right ankle resting on his knee, his hands folded on his flat belly, his hat back on his head. Zachary, his frock coat unbuttoned, took off his Stetson and rested it on the edge of the desk, to his right. Nothing was on the scarred wooden surface between them but the facedown wire.

  York said, “I hope your business meeting went well.”

  Zachary’s smile under the thin mustache was equally thin, but wide. “It did indeed. You may be aware that my late cousin pulled a fast one on these shopkeepers, investing in their establishments and then demanding repayment for that investment while holding on to a fifty percent interest. Such a shameless exercise in human greed.”

  “That’s just about the only kind.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Of greed. The human kind. Never knew an animal that was greedy, except maybe for food. But that’s ’cause they never know where or when their next meal is comin’ from.”

  Zachary shrugged. “Perhaps that’s the human motivation as well.” He shifted in the chair. “Getting back to my cousin’s skullduggery . . . when I heard that these local men of business had sought legal help in Albuquerque, to resolve this matter, I felt I ought to nip it in the bud.”

  “How so?”

  His smile was edged with pride. “I’ve signed their shops back to them in exchange for a modest ten percent interest.”

  “Well, you must be popular in town about now.”

  Zachary shrugged. “I just want to be a constructive member of this community. We’re also talking about the reorganization of the bank, now that Mr. Carter’s suicide has left that institution in disarray. Apparently he left no surviving relations.”

  York gave him a wry grin. “Not even a cousin?”

  That got a small laugh out of Zachary. “Not even a cousin. Uh, Sheriff, let me say, again, how impressed I am by how you’ve handled yourself in this difficult situation. I’ve heard in some detail, now, exactly how you handled those brutes this morning. A remarkable performance.”

  Still leaning back, ankle on knee, arms folded, York smiled and said, “I appreciate that, comin’ from you. After all, you’ve given a pretty damn remarkable performance yourself.”

  Zachary’s forehead frowned, though his mouth smiled. “How is that... ?”

  The sheriff shrugged easily. “Everything that’s happened over these past days is the work of your skilled hand, starting with robbing the bank.”

  Zachary took that like a slap, blinked, shook his head as if his hearing might be bad, opened his mouth wide, then finally laughed.

  “The bank? Sheriff, are you sure you didn’t take a blow to the head in that fracas this morning? What would I know about robbing banks? I wasn’t even in town when First Bank was robbed!”

  “Not in town, but in the area. Certainly as close as Las Vegas, anyway, and possibly your ranch. You had deals worked out, in advance, with certain individuals—your foreman, Gil Willart, for example. And with Rita Filley, regarding the Victory, of which you didn’t even ask her for ten percent, like you just did the shopkeepers.”

  Zachary seemed genu
inely amused. “Go on, Sheriff. This is a fascinating story. You might be able to interest that Buntline character in it, for one of his dime novels.”

  “It does have that flavor, I grant you. You see, Gil Willart was a regular of that prostitute Pearl, at the Victory. Willart learned from her what her bank-clerk beau told her—that Herbert Upton would be soon getting a promotion and a raise, and maybe even a substantial sum beyond that. Because Upton knew Thomas Carter was embezzling.”

  He shrugged a little. “Interesting theory.”

  “I figure you met with the bank president in Las Vegas, or possibly out at the Circle G. You spun a plan to help the banker cover up his financial shortfall and at the same time feather your nest. You arranged for some of your cousin Harry’s bunch to rob that bank, and the money was turned back over to you.”

  Zachary’s eyes went wide. “To me?”

  “To you. So you could ride in on a white horse, or anyway an Appaloosa, with enough money to shore up the bank in its difficulties. Money you brought from back East, where you liquidated your substantial assets. Only there were no substantial assets back East. What you had to deposit in the bank, with Carter’s full knowledge and collusion, was the money that had been stolen from it.”

  For several endless seconds, the two men just looked coldly at each other.

  Finally, Zachary said, “And why the hell would I do that?”

  “To become a constructive member of the community, and to draw on that stolen money to buy stock for your land-rich, cattle-poor ranch.”

  Zachary chuckled as he shook his head. “You have much more imagination, Sheriff, than I would ever have dreamed. What next? Am I a murderer, too? Did I kill that fool of a clerk Upton? And, what—banker Carter, too?”

  “Carter killed his own grasping clerk. That little worm was just one accomplice too many in this thing. I doubt you gave your blessing, though, because it only complicated matters. Probably led you to feel that our distinguished bank president was coming apart at the seams. And he—and probably you, too, Zachary—sensed I was onto him. That’s why you killed him and staged that suicide.”

  His broad smile said how ridiculous that sounded. “What was staged about it?”

  “All of it. You shot him from across the room, or at least at enough distance not to leave powder burns at the wound. For all your careful planning, and it was shrewd and clever, I admit . . . things were starting to unravel. With Upton dead, the grieving, laudanum-addled Pearl became a particularly dangerous loose end. So you used your knife—where did an Easterner come up with a Smoky Mountain toothpick like that?—and you snipped her off good. Sneaked up the back stairs from the alley, wearing that duster in anticipation of a blood shower. You have been around, Zachary. You have been around.”

  “Have I.”

  “You have. Now, let’s talk about the Rhomers. You sent your man Gil Willart to Las Vegas to hire the brothers to come shoot me down—looking to get revenge, everybody would think. The really cunning touch was telling me yesterday that you suspected Gil had done as much. Then I killed him for you, though in my defense he did draw down on me. But still—that’s a loose end I snipped for you. And you haven’t even thanked me.”

  This time the smile had a sneer in it. “I do thank you, Sheriff, for sharing this entertaining flight of fancy. And it’s nothing more than that, because you haven’t a shred of proof to back it up.”

  “I have this,” York said, and he flipped over the wire. “Read it yourself. Or I can sum it up. My friends at Pinkerton’s recognized your name right away. Your only connection to Wall Street is as a swindler. Several rich women have died while they knew you. You’ve been tried half-a-dozen times, though never convicted. You are known to have left New York and its environs over a month ago. I’m gonna say you came West, young man.”

  “Droll. Very droll.”

  “Zachary Gauge is a notorious bunco artist, not a legitimate businessman who liquidated his funds. You’ve never been married and suffered the various tragedies that people around town are discussing so sympathetically. I imagine you shared that melodrama with Willa Cullen, too. She’s a smart girl but no match for the likes of a sharper like you.”

  Zachary, who had only glanced at the telegram, picked it up and tossed it toward York, with casual indifference. “So what? Everybody who comes West is escaping something. We’re all starting over.”

  “You decided to start over when you received this windfall, thanks to your cousin’s death, inheriting all this land in the heart of cattle country. You probably didn’t realize till you got here—a month earlier than is generally known—that while you did have plenty of land, you also had no beef. So you fell back into your scheming ways.”

  Zachary gave him the kind of look reserved for a madman. “Scheming ways like giving the shopkeepers here their businesses back? Asking only a nominal ten percent?”

  “Well, that was a problem you solved smoothly. You had a lot of names back East, but your real one, with all its nasty baggage, is Zachary Gauge. And to collect your inheritance, you had to stick with it. If that lawyer in Albuquerque went digging, he’d have found out who Zachary Gauge really is—a confidence man and suspected murderer.”

  No smile now. “You still don’t have a damned thing, York.”

  “We have a bloodstained duster that you bought somewhere around here, possibly right at Harris Mercantile.”

  Zachary batted that away. “How many dusters like that have been sold in this town in the last six months? Anyway, there’s nothing to tie me to that whore’s killing.”

  Still leaning back lazily, York said, “Well, I have a strong witness who can likely link you to that murder, and a lot else. Rita saw you exit Pearl’s crib all covered in blood and make your exit out the back stairs of the Victory. She was on your side before things started getting nasty. But one of her girls getting her throat cut like that . . . that can weigh heavily on a good woman.”

  “There’s nothing good about that dance-hall whore,” Zachary said bitterly. Then he grinned nastily. “But you still don’t have a witness—Rita skipped town last night. Packed her bag and ran out of the Victory and went off who-knows-where.”

  “Oh, I know where.” York unfolded his arms to gesture toward the cell block. “She’s well within earshot. That’s right, she’s heard everything we’ve been saying. No, I’ll have plenty about you to share with the circuit judge when he comes through.”

  Zachary scowled and straightened his tie, and then his hand went swiftly under his coat and came back with a small pocket revolver that was swinging York’s way when the sheriff whipped the Smoky Mountain toothpick from the boot resting on his ankle and flung the knife with force across the desk and into Zachary’s chest, where it entered with a resounding thunk.

  The revolver clunked to the floor.

  The razor-sharp blade was deep in the man’s heart, but Zachary wasn’t quite dead yet. York had just time enough.

  “Thought you’d like your knife back,” he said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When Zachary Gauge went backward, taking his chair with him and breaking it into kindling, the noise was enough to summon Tulley from his perch on the porch.

  The deputy and his scattergun came bursting in, like the fort was being attacked. He came to a sudden stop when he saw the blank-eyed Zachary Gauge staring up at a heaven surely denied him.

  “Well, sir,” Tulley said, eyes wide, scratching the side of his head with his free hand, “that there’s one way to bust up an engagement.”

  “Round up Miller and Perkins,” Caleb York said, “and get back here.”

  “Them two’s shore doin’ land-office business,” Tulley said as he went out, shaking his shaggy head.

  With just the barest glance at the dead swindler, York came out from around his desk and walked back into the cell block.

  Rita was sitting on her cot, eyes wide, a hand over her mouth.

  “You heard?” he asked.

  She swallowe
d, nodded. “You . . . killed him? With . . . the knife he used . . . on Pearl . . . ?”

  York nodded. “It was a boot knife, and that’s where I had it. I thought he might try something, so I kept it near at hand.”

  She didn’t come to him, just stayed right there on the cot, its wall-chains whining some. “How did you know I’d seen him leaving all bloody?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Her eyes were wide and pleading. “Caleb, the only thing I knew was that Zachary was in the area weeks ahead of when he pretended to get here. That’s how he made his deal with me. Not through the mails.”

  “I never exactly believed that.”

  “You didn’t challenge me.”

  “Why call you a liar and get on your bad side? You make a better friend than enemy.”

  She blinked at him. “Were you . . . using me?”

  “Why, you never used anybody?”

  Her eyes stared into nothing. “He . . . he would have killed me next.”

  “That’s right. Right there in that cell, unless you got him with your derringer first.”

  She swallowed; she looked very small. “What happens now?”

  York shrugged. “Things take their due course, startin’, I’d imagine, with whatever’s in Zachary’s account at the bank being returned to the depositors. If the papers have been signed, the Cullens should wind up with the Gauge land . . . an unexpected result of his swindle.”

  “He’d have killed Willa, too.”

  York shrugged. “When he got around to it, maybe. Or maybe he hoped to change his ways, when things settled down. People do come West for a new life.”

  Rita seemed to be studying him. “And people leave towns like Trinidad for a new life, too. Is that what you’ll do?”

  “Not right away. I’m stayin’ awhile. I helped make this mess. Least I can do is help clean it up.”

  “What about Willa? What about that girl of yours?”

  His answer was a shrug. Then: “I’ll have Tulley let you out. Gather your things.”